


Processed

by CallMeHopeless (IAmNotBread)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Abuse (From Third Parties), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Anxiety, Ben Is In A Lose-Lose Here, Breeding, Cumming In Front Of People You Hate, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eugenics, Extreme Breeding Kink, Extremely Graphic Violence, F/M, Forced Heat, Fuck Or Die, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I mean really, Incredibly dubious consent, Injections, Knotting, Kylo is Exhausted, Like Ben's watching the Geneva Convention get broken in real time here, Masturbation, Mental Illness, Mentions of Rape, Multiple Orgasms, Nesting, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy Kink, Reader wont go down without a fight, Restraints, Sad feelings, Shower Sex, Slavery, Strong Fallout: New Vegas vibes, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Vomiting, What Did You Expect, dubcon, heat - Freeform, im a sick fuck, physical illness, very violent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-08-08 22:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotBread/pseuds/CallMeHopeless
Summary: You've heard about the Slavers. The stories of the missing girls, gone in the dead of night; returning changed and desperate. You've defied their flag all your life - until you stand face-to-face with the Supreme Leader Snoke himself.You are to be a gift to a man from your past; Kylo Ren. He's powerful, respected: but just as clasped in chains as you are.You won't give in, no matter how much this new heat in your veins burns....Right?





	1. Chains

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot stress enough that you should definitely read the above warnings and tags! There is no rape in this fic but definitely some dubious consent based issues so please keep that in mind. Also, suicidal thoughts are a big one here.
> 
> I've written a lot of things in my life. A lot. Over 500,000 words of fanfiction have been poured into my Tumblr and Ao3 collectively. But this? This is straight out of the fucking sin bin. This is the great serpent of evil. This is the crashing of all of my chickens coming home to metaphorically roost.
> 
> Hell is empty; all the Devils are here.

The sheer size of the encampment is utterly bewildering.

Even through the pain in your shoulders as two leather-clad men drag you through the main highway; you can't help but take in the bustle of it all. How many people lived here? Three-thousand? More than any field reports had ever shown. More than any escaped slave had ever reported back; the shells of buildings lit by old lanterns and patched with scrappy fabric. Everything was. Everything nowadays looks a little like that.

"Eyes forward".

One of the men - a hulking, brutish mercenary with a swollen upper lip - nudges your head forward and gives you a bloom of pain in the back of your forehead. You spit; blood and copper leaking from your lips as a result of all the dragging and shoving. Adrenaline is like a freight in your system: you'd killed two before the rest had put you out. Slaving party. You were straying too far from camp; they never usually made it this far north.

Your own fault.

You consider, for a brief moment, that there are likely three possible outcomes at the end of this highway, stretching into view as you approach the steps of the main building:

_1\. They put you up on the wall and let the bullets do the work._

It's quick. You're a member of the Resistance - you're documented. The file they have on you is thick as they come; or so you've been told. So odds are you're considered to be a dangerous asset. Keeping you alive is probably more risk than you're worth. A Commander will likely read you some rites; you'll be chained up. Chewed out. And then...and then nothing. Darkness. The thought of dying in this forsaken place makes your blood curdle in your veins, but it was always on the cards. 

Unfortunately: option 1 is your preferred option.

_2\. You get thrown into The Pit._

It's simple, really: they clip on some bomb-rigged collar, give you half a crate of blunt objects and let you all go at it. You walk away? Boom. You don't fight? Boom. They get bored anyway? Boom. Boom, boom, fucking boom. There are rumours that they've got this Process drug they give slaves they throw in there; makes them crazy angry, makes them aggressive and stupidly heady. If you win, you win an opportunity for freedom.

By freedom, they mean you get to live out the rest of your days with that consistent aggressive disposition in the lovely little Slaver Army. 

You're not keen on that one, either.

But the third one is the real kicker; that's the one you're playing to avoid.

_3\. They enslave you and Process you._

You'll die first. You'll do it. However you have to do it - with whatever you can find. You've heard of some slaves choking on their own shackles before they'll be Processed - and you're ready to do it at the drop of a hat.

You don't know what it _means_ specifically, or _how_ they do it. Before the war, it used to be normal to have people born that way. 'Normal' being relative for the poor suckers that had to live like that. The people you've seen who have escaped after being Processed - they're never the same. They have these horrifying cycles, these heats that wrench their guts and make them scream in pain. They're left with scars on their necks and this gnawing _need._ You've seen them go half-mad in the thralls of it; seen some die of dehydration from all that fluid they lose from desperation. It terrifies you. It should terrify _everyone_.

So you pray they'll just kill you and be done with it.

But something tells you they won't.

* * *

 

"You don't know how long I've waited to see you dragged through this door".

The Supreme Leader - or Snoke, if you prefer -  is everything you expected. Cold, dark eyes. Sunken face. Shriveled lips. Scars across his cheeks as though pieces of him have burned away from his bones. He's flanked by officers - likely they've all shown up to watch the Resistance scumbag shot up on the wall. It's probably something of a Slaver Holiday.

Your shackled ankles jangle as the two men throw you to the stone floor; your scuffed palms aching as you huff out a ragged breath. The air in here tastes wrong. Like it's laced with sweat and anger and poison. Radiation, perhaps? Maybe those scars on the Supreme Leader's face weren't just from his twisted heart.

"No witty remarks for me?" Snoke chuckles, the sound without humour or compassion. His shriveled fingers tap against the sides of his makeshift throne; metal clicking at his overgrown fingernails. "And here from the reports I've been given I assumed you'd put on more of a show".

You grit your teeth, eyes daring to glare upward at his prone form. 

You wonder whether you can sprint to the pistol at his side and cock it to your head before the guards jump you.

Snoke smiles cruelly, eyeing it as though he can sense your intent.

"What a waste" he tuts, thumbing at the barrel "what a waste it would be to see you escape so easily from my grasp. Do you think you could do it? I think you could, you know. Lesser men have tried to take their lives at my feet and failed. But you? You, I believe".

You bite down on your lip - hard. As hard as you can without breaking the skin, trying to stifle the sudden desire to scream, to hurl yourself at the brutal creature tormenting you this way. Even with the dozen or so guards; you can't help but wonder how far you could get. Wonder how much pain you could inflict on the man responsible for the deaths and brutal enslavement of so many you love.

Instead; Snoke makes a gesture with his fingers. A door off to the right opens, and your heart lurches as though it threatens to drag you through the floor.

The scar that breaks the symmetry of his face is still there, you note. Still cuts through his pale skin like the burning wildfire that had engulfed that small village. He had come for them in the night; and you, filled with terror and pain, had sliced him with that heavy machete. Cleaved through his skin like paper. It was easy to forget, fueled with adrenaline, that you had known him in the long years before that night - before he'd been captured. Before he'd been sent to The Pit.

Before he'd been a Slaver.

Kylo's steps hesitate as his eyes meet yours; a palpable recognition as his plush lip quivers. His hair is thicker now than when you last met, his eyes darker. Everything about the black armour he wears cuts a formidable form, makes him look dangerous and dark and powerful and handsome. He's a Commander, they say: he reports to Snoke directly, and Snoke alone. But he's as much a slave as anyone here. Freedom in these walls is an illusion, like the scenes on faded billboards in the crumbling ruins of the city. 

_The physical shackles aren't the ones that burn the most._

His heavy steps come to a halt just in front of you: he drops to one knee in some sort of ceremonial bow. You can't suppress the snort that escapes you, even in your adrenaline-fueled state. It's pathetic, all the ceremony. All of this ridiculous observance of _hierarchy._ They're like a pack of wild dogs, scrapping and bending and snapping for control; control they'll never have. An illusion, twisted to fit an image of a world that doesn't exist.

"Commander!" Snoke claps, immediately rising to stand. A flinch almost seems to roll through the crowd like a wave; and you're hardly immune to it yourself. One way or another: you're not long for this world. Composure now is the only small victory you have left, and even that seems hard to grasp. "I'm sure you're familiar with our guest".

Kylo Ren palpably flusters. His head tilts up to his Supreme Leader - dark waves sticking to his cheeks. He's nervous. It's rolling off of him like water over stone.

"Yes, Supreme Leader".

His voice drips with subservience. Crawls with bitter want to please.

"Well, Ren: what would you have me do with the girl?"

Your head pricks up at that moment; and you're suddenly acutely aware that Kylo Ren has likely longed for this, since your last meeting. Dominion over your life is a heady prize. You hope he's merciful and gives you the wall, your mind screaming for it. _Please. Give me the quick out. If there's anything left of the man I once knew in there, give me this._

Kylo chews his lip, almost as though he's speaking to himself under his breath. When he answers, it's with a false confidence, scattered inflections:

"I'd shoot her clean through the head, Supreme Leader".

 _Yes._ You try not to look to relieved, resorting to dropping your head to stare at the stone floor, counting the grains in the rock.

Snoke hums under his breath, tapping his finger to his puckered lips. The room is eerily silent; which is why you can hear your own breath, heaved through fearful lungs. It flutters in time with your heart, rising through your palms like engulfing fire.

"When was your last rut, Ren?"

For what it's worth; you were doing incredibly well up until this point. You concede that to yourself; concede that until now, you had remained relatively calm. You don't know what a rut specifically is, but for the most part: the tone conveys the sentiment. A sound escapes your lips, deep and low and pained - an inhuman noise, your psyche falling away as your nails dig into the stonework.

All eyes fall to you - and Kylo's do not deviate from that.

They're swallowed by black, his lips shaking, nostrils flared.

He's petrified.

"I..." he stammers, shifting on the spot "Supreme-"

Hands grip the crease of your elbows, shoving you upward to stand. But you won't - _you won't_. 

 _"FUCK YOU!"_ you scream, thrashing against their hold as your feet skid across the flooring. Your boots have no grip, no agency against the heavy hold on your arms. Everything whirls, white-hot and burning as your shackles grate and jangle like the tune of a terrible song. "GET AWAY FROM ME!"

You can't make out what's happening over the endless terror; but the Supreme Leader hands Kylo something silver, sharp. Clear liquid pools at the barrel. A syringe?

"I'll take another girl" Kylo pleads "I'll find one from the supply line. Not her. I'll dispose of this one myself. But I won't...I...Not her-"

One of the men yanks your head back, a scream ripping from your throat so hard that your vocal chords feel as though they're shredding. Your eyes water, feet skidding. _Kylo...Ben...Please._

"Sentiment is weakness, Ren. You'll Process this one, or I'll take her myself".

Kylo's hands visibly shake, his breath wild as he moves toward you, boots clicking on the floor.

"YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" you scream "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, BEN. I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

His brow creases in the middle, eyes watering as he grips the needle so tightly you pray it'll crack. Even with you being held in place, you edge away from him, trying to twist your neck out of reach of that forsaken needle. Not you. You wouldn't be Processed. Not like this.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry".

As the needle pierces the skin in your neck, you let out a piercing wail - shock and pain making your body quake as you bite your tongue. Cold liquid flows beneath the surface of your skin, making your neck instantly tender; making your breathing horribly erratic. Everything spins; and as the last drop of liquid enters your system, the guards let you go.

Your whole body is limp from exhaustion, from screaming and fighting and pitiful defeat. Kylo's arms reach out to hold you steady - but it's a cold victory. Even with his arms the only thing supporting you, you reach up and slug him square in the jaw, making the empty needle clatter from his hand. Red blooms on his cheekbone as he spits blood onto the stone floor.

_Good. You hope he chokes on it._

"That spit of fire will need taming" Snoke laughs coldly. "She'll be in heat within the next fifteen minutes. I suggest you take her to your quarters by then - if she triggers any of the others into ruts, I'll hold you responsible".

You don't know what to say. Even as you stare at Kylo, fury wracking your bloodstream - you feel that bitter pang of resignation begin to flourish. All of your life, you worked to free others from this pain.

Now you're here - it tastes so much more bitter than you'd expected.

Kylo's eyes dart everywhere that isn't your face; anywhere he can see. Shame is heavy on his lips, accentuated by the blood dripping at the corner. A part of you knows he's as much of a puppet as anyone here - but another part of you _despises_ that he didn't have the courage to just kill you himself. That he was too selfish to choke you, to seal his own fate along with yours and grant you both some form of reprieve. You wonder what you would have done, given his position - how far you might've gone.

"Of course, Supreme Leader", Kylo quietly responds.

Someone uncuffs the shackles from your ankles as Kylo's grip on you tightens: his arms coming to sweep you up, draping you across his form as you limply let him. There's nothing romantic about it: nothing grand or beautiful or majestic. It's just business. Just two slaves, shackled in their own ways, waiting for that change to hit that'll take everything from them.

You just hope he'll oblige you begging him to shoot you before he obliges you begging him to _fuck_ you.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO THE D-D-DANGER ZONE  
> My first Darkfic and I think we're starting off on a good foot. Or feet. Feets? Yes.  
> Hoping to update this daily but you know, life might get in the way.
> 
> If you have any questions or comments you'd like to ask me elsewhere, hit me up on Tumblr! Also if you see any tags you think should be worth me adding do let me know - I've tried to tag everything I think that could be relevant and triggering but obviously there's a lot to unpack here.  
> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	2. Thrash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They told you it would hurt.  
> But God; they never said how much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys the reception this fic has had has me OVERWHELMED. IM SHOOK. IM SO EXCITED TO GET DOWN TO THE SMUTTY STUFF YES  
> As always, read the tags! I'm updating them as I go. Look after yourselves!

"You should've just killed me".

Kylo winces slightly against you, his jaw working as he moves through a pair of double doors at the end of the crumbling corridor. Your arms stay looped around his neck; fingernails digging into his shoulder blades hard enough that you can feel you're biting at skin. You hope it hurts - hope it gives him just a taste of the agony running through your head. If you weren't so exhausted, you might try to claw your way out of his hold; but something tells you the odds of you getting shot at this point were steadily decreasing with every second the drug went to work in your veins.

"You don't mean that", he mutters. He stops at another pair of doors; this time fumbling in his pockets as he shifts you in his arms. You weigh nothing to him: weightless and aimless, floating in his arms as though you're ethereal. He pulls out a silver key, fitting it into the lock and pushing open the old wooden door.

You must admit: it's nice. A small kitchen, a little raggedy sofa. An area separated by red curtains, sporting a huge canopied bed. Little in the way of trinkets, bar the odd landscape painting on one of the off-white walls. A door left ajar indicates a little bathroom just off to the side. It seems so plain and demure, but in these times, this may as well be a luxurious dwelling. It speaks of his status in a way that makes your stomach turn.

Kylo seems to hesitate in the doorway; his eyes dropping to yours. You forgot how soft they could be, in the right light. Rich chocolate-brown, flecked with gold. Deep and warm and heavy.

"You begged them to kill me", you stutter through chapped lips. His throat bobs as he flicks the lock on the door shut, trapping you both in the gilded prison. You can hardly bring yourself to care at this point. "Don't now gaslight me into believing I should be grateful".

"That was for my benefit more than it was for yours".

You snort; kicking your legs as he lowers you to the floor. Your immediate thought is to arm yourself with any kind of weapon; anything you can use to choke the life out of Kylo Ren and escape. You think you could do it with the curtains - strangle him if you tied them up, created a makeshift noose. If you could knock him out, you could use the laces from your boots-

"-You'll never get out of here alive if you do it, you know. I've seen others try". His eyes darken; his huge, calloused hand splaying on your lower back as you wobble on your feet. Your legs aren't working right, as though all of your muscles are tensing and untensing, shock and pain radiating through you in more ways than one. Your heavy boots should be giving you balance, but your knees won't stop knocking together.

"If it wasn't obvious" you bark, leaning your scuffed palm on the chapped wall for balance "I'm not afraid of being shot".

Kylo laughs; he actually laughs. It's not a musical laugh: not like the kind of laugh you'd hear in the Resistance camp when Poe told a hearty joke. Not a cruel laugh: Snoke's amusement at your torment. It's sad and fearful and very, very quiet.

"You think they'll shoot you?" he sucks on his teeth, his cheeks hollowing to show the growing bruise on his face. "If you kill me now, you won't make it out of this building before the pain starts. They'll smell it. They're like fucking animals. They'll chain you up and take turns, and they'll keep leaving just long enough in between to stop the heat from ending. And sooner or later: you'll die of dehydration and hunger and exhaustion. That's what they do. That's what happens when you try to run".

Your legs start to buckle; breathing growing ragged from panic. Fuck, fucking shit. Why hadn't you just shot yourself when they found you? You'd wasted all that fucking ammo unloading into the slavers. You'd been certain they'd kill you in the conflict...certain they'd just...you'd just...

"And you expect me to believe...believe I'm safer here with you?"

He steps away, dipping his back lightly to look into your eyes. God, he looks exhausted. The scar running through his cheek burns in contrast with his skin; reminding you of the sensation as the sword had cleaved through his skin. It brings a shudder to your lips, even now.

"You don't have to believe it" Kylo mutters, chewing the inside of his cheek. "But I'm not your enemy. Even now".

You almost huff a laugh; gritting your teeth as you push off of the wall. Jesus, it's warm in here. The old air-con units in the camp are better than this place: much better. Even if Poe is shit at fixing the backup generator in the summer, you still have the little battery-operated things to keep the rooms cool. You wonder how the fuck the richest slaving outfit this side of the country can't even work an AC.

On unsteady legs you make your way over to the tap, turning the knob and letting cool water spill out onto your fingertips. Shit. Actual, fresh tap water. You let your lips drift over the stream of it gracelessly, letting it soothe the cracks in the chapped skin as you swallow. There's something _blissful_ about it - a relief you can't quite understand. You had come to terms with the last drop of water on your tongue being the last you'd ever taste; yet here you are.

Small victories.

Kylo doesn't say much: he seems to just...drift. A dark shadow in the entryway, his hands grazing the locked door. In that dark armour, he looks like something primal and fierce. His eyes won't seem to part from your face, as though he's waiting for you to garrote him with his own hair or something. You must admit, it's not an unwelcome thought.

"Are you going to..." you swallow, pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Jesus, your armour is sticking to your skin with sweat. How the hell is he so chilled out? "...What now? Am I like your new pet? Are you waiting for me to dance for your amusement? You're looking at me like I'm about to _fucking..._ break through a wall with my fists".

You take a deep breath in: but there's no answer from Kylo. He's so still, so perfectly still - his chest rising and falling being the only signs of life from him. But _fuck_ \- something in this room smells good. Spicy aftershave? God, you wish half the guys in this forsaken land used a little aftershave. It's a tantalizing smell; just on the cusp between something delicious and something perfumed. What kind of store was he raiding to get something _that_ good?

"Christ, it's hot" you moan: your legs feeling weak underneath you. Was this...could he feel this? Was this the Process shot they'd given you? This wasn't...No, that can't be right, can it? Is it supposed to feel like this?

Kylo licks his lips; his body rippling. "You need to lay down."

No. No, no, no. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. There's...it's not...

Something like a shiver wracks your body: a twisting, gnawing pain in your gut that makes your whole body feel as though it's on fire. Jesus, something isn't right. You clasp your hand to your mouth and nose; wincing as you try desperately to move to the bed. You stumble on the floor, panic rising in your gut as your body trembles. Kylo rushes to help you up, but you're on your feet before he can intervene, dragging your prone form onto the red sheets and burrowing your face into the pillows. Gods, it smells fucking divine. Holy shit.

" _Fuck_ " you moan, your bones aching, muscles in your stomach clenching hard. It _hurts_ as though there's this poison in your veins, burning through your system - eating through your bones.

It's then that the part you _do_ hear about starts; humiliation burning inside you.

You twist in the sheets, desperate to relieve the pain - and suddenly, the muscles between your legs flutter desperately. You cry out, groaning as you feel slick spilling from you: drenching through your pants and onto the sheets. God, it hurts: desire blooming in you so hot that there's nothing to be done for it. There's so, so much of it; and as you feel it letting up, your cries muffled by the pillow: you feel that gnawing pain building again, feel your body ache as it demands something you _won't_ give it.

Kylo's whole body trembles as he steadies himself on the back of the sofa - his knuckles white against the fabric. His pupils are utterly blown out: watching you as though torn between a thousand fragmented thoughts. Now that you're rolling in his sheets, palming the fabric: you realise it's _him._ Fuck. He's the smell, the heady aroma making you writhe with the burning in your veins. Fuck, shit. It's too hot, too fucking hot to think - your hands clamour at your thin armour, trembling fingers pulling at the straps as you try to free yourself from its confines. You want...want-

An all-encompassing moan breaks your lips as the pressure releases again, slick dripping down your thighs. Tears begin to well up in the corners of your eyes, the pain just so intense that your body is burning, breaking; too much to make sense of it all. It's so hot, it's so fucking hot in this fucking room that you can't...

 _"Oh God"_ Kylo groans, the sound ripping from his lips as though it's taking his breath with it. He bites down on his fist, hard: legs shaking as he squeezes his eyes shut. His free hand desperately palms the bulge in his trousers, trying to relieve some of the pressure. It's not normal; none of it. Whatever Process they've put you through has had an entirely different result on him - but seems no less painful, no less filled with want and need. It's terrifying and painful and sad. So, so sad.

Your hands rip the buttons from your shirt, clawing off your trousers and underwear as though they're the fire burning at your skin. The loss makes your legs shake, feeling the sudden relief as cool air hits the thick slick dripping at your thighs. It does nothing to ease the pain, though.

Only one thing will do that.

Sliding your fingers through wet folds, you gasp as the sensation lets more slick drip from you; your toes curling as you stroke two fingers into the heat. But they just slide around; doing nothing to alleviate the pain. You add a third finger, hissing at the way your bones burn; but the fire still rages, even as you curl and twist your fingers wildly to ease it. The lack of friction makes you sob, the need so brutal that you feel your resolve waning.

Kylo isn't looking up at you; even as he moans your name. Moans it like it's a bastion; something strong and steadfast in the madness of this hot lust.

 _"Please"_ he groans, trembling in place as his hair falls wildly across his cheekbones "fuck, let me...let me help you. I need-"

You bite down on your lip so hard that it draws blood: your body shaking as tears roll down your cheeks. You don't know what you want. All you know for sure is that this pain will end, one way or another. If you hold strong: it'll take days to pass. Sometimes a week. This gnawing, this burning: it'll wrack you until there's nothing left to give. 

If you let him fuck you, let him ease the fire: you'll be strong enough. Strong enough to get through this. Maybe to get out of here.

Your body shifts, his scent overtaking you as the pressure between your hip bones builds again. Fuck...

 _"Ben"_ you whimper, your fingers desperately rubbing your clit.

The _sound_ he makes - fuck, it's depraved. Somewhere in between him gripping the couch and moving to your side, his clothes are ripped from his body: his hands raw from the force of it as he tears through belts and padding and cloth. Naked, his skin finds yours - the smell of his body so heavenly your eyes roll back, forcing a whimper from your lips as your cunt clenches.

" _Jesus_ " he groans, his mouth seeking out yours, plush lips crushing to you. Fuck, he tastes like rich desire; so heady it makes your hips buck as he licks into you. "You don't - fuck! You don't know how fucking good you smell. Oh my God". His hair is already plastered to his face with sweat: eyes black as pitch, skin burning hot to the touch.

God, he's so fucking handsome. Rippling muscles spread across his pale body, marked with constellations of freckles. His proximity does nothing to quell the pain in your bones, the feeling of his cock brushing against you just making your head spin, making slick drip at your legs.

"P-please! Ben! It _hurts_!"

The voice coming from your lips is so pitiful, so unlike your own; but that hardly matters. All that matters is him fucking you, him spilling into you; quenching that fire if only for a moment. If only for a second.

"I'll make it go away" he groans, leaning back to kneel on the mattress. Calloused hands reach at your midsection, flipping you onto your stomach with no effort at all. You let out a short moan; feeling him yank your hips upward, bringing you to your hands and knees. The change in movement sends slick gushing, dripping from your cunt onto the mattress as Kylo lets out a string of expletives. 

"Hurry!" you sob; legs quivering as you feel him angle himself, feel the head of his cock brush against you.

With the filthiest moan: Kylo eases into you, making your whole body shake as you cry out. Oh my fucking god. Oh fuck. You feel as though he's splitting you: filling every inch of you. Fucking hell, it doesn't hurt a bit - not even as he bottoms out with a shudder, leaning forward and panting on your skin for a brief moment.

"Fuck" he hisses, trying to catch his bearings. Impatience boils in your blood with the burning fire in your veins. You need him to fucking move! 

He gasps as he slides out, letting the head catch before slamming into you again. Slick drips down his cock, making the most depraved sounds as he begins to fuck into you, making your whole body shudder and squirm. It feels incredible. You've never felt anything like this.

"So tight. So fucking tight!"

"Ben! You're huge! You're filling me up so _fucking_ well!"

You don't even know why you're spurring him on; the words leave your lips as though by way of another voice entirely. Your heart is in your ears, too loud to even comprehend; desperate for you to find your release, to make this ache stop before it consumes you.

His thrusts become more desperate, more erratic. Nails dig into your shoulders; crescent markings making you moan as you slam backward into his hips. Gods, you can smell the desire rolling off of him - concentrated and lustful and heady, dark and aromatic. You want to savour it, want to hold it as though it's entirely physical.

"Gonna knot you so fucking hard" Kylo groans, his legs trembling as he slams into you "so fucking hard you'll - fuck - you'll feel it for weeks!"

You're not sure what he means by it, but you not erratically; feeling orgasm blooming in your stomach.

"Please! Yes! I'm...I'm so close!" you beg, your arms threatening to give out underneath you as you feel his cock harden, feel his moans grow shorter and faster as he gets closer, closer to the peak you both feel building.

And all at once - you feel your whole body quake, slick pouring from you as you bite down on your lip. A scream rips from your throat; white-hot pleasure rolling through you as you feel Kylo's body respond, his whole frame shaking.

"Fuck! I'm going to-" Kylo cums with a desperate cry that leaves you spinning; but something strange happens, deep at the base of his cock. As ropes of cum spill into you, you feel heat bloom inside you: his cock stretching you, as though engorged by something else - hitting you in such a way that you cum again, walls fluttering as you drool into the pillow. You can hardly breathe; hardly see. What the fuck? Oh my god. Your whole body ripples with pleasure as you feel the fire in your gut burn down to a simmer. You shift and he moans; more cum spurting inside of you as his eyes roll back into his head. What the fuck?

"I'm sorry" he moans "I didn't...prepare you for that. It's a knot, it'll go down in...fifteen m-oh, Jesus, I'm going to-"

His whole body shudders as his cock clenches, cumming again with such force that it makes him gasp on a breath. You've never heard of such a thing; but fuck, it feels so good. He pants and pants, catching his breath as he slowly sweeps a shaking arm under you and turns you both on your side, nestled on the bed against the pillows. His arms wrap around you: cock still buried in you, still swollen at the base so much that it's impossible to release away from it.

Your eyes flutter open and closed; watering a little from the shock and want of it all. It's beautiful and new and so fucking miserable. His nose brushes against the back of your neck, nuzzling into your hair and breathing you in.

"It's alright" Kylo says quietly, plush lips pushing to the base of your neck. He groans, hips stuttering as he cums _again._ Fifteen minutes? God, it must hurt to be that desperate. He must be so wired from his body taking the reins like that. Sympathy pangs in your chest, and you realise slight tears are soaking the base of your neck. You wonder whether his words are meant for you, or whether they're to soothe his own frayed nerves.

Neither of you want to be here. You don't want this. This Process has made you both slaves in a whole different way; and it's fucking depressing.

"Does it do that every time?" you ask, swallowing back feelings of pain in your throat. You bring his calloused knuckles to your lips, kissing them a little to ease the pain. You desperately try not to shift your weight, letting him have some reprieve from the jolts in his bones.

"Not like this" he groans, toes curling. "I've never - mhhn - fucked someone in heat before. I've fucked others who haven't been Processed but...it doesn't...it stays knotted but - fuck, shit - I don't keep fucking _going_ like this".

Oh, god. Poor Ben. And to think - you'd wanted to kill him yourself not long ago.

"I'm here, Ben. It's alright. We'll get through this together".

Kylo just gives a little nod, ragged breath slowing as exhaustion passes over him in waves. With his heartbeat falling steady, and his breathing evening out - you fall into a dreamless sleep, his knot still buried deep inside you.

Sometimes, you have to take peace where you can get it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus Christ, are you guys shaking? I'm fucking shaking. I wrote this being like "this is fucked up and this is the hottest shit I've ever written. Honestly, guys. I'm dead.
> 
> Will you believe me if I say I think this is going to get EVEN HOTTER cause I've got some mad shit lined up in my brain  
> [Come say hi on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	3. Drip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a fine line between pleasure and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shall we give Kylo a break in this chapter from his desperate horny feelings?  
> Nah  
> Let's not

Some time later; sunlight flutters through your eyelids, tongue running against the dry ridges of your mouth as you stir in the sheets.

Part of you had hoped - perhaps even prayed - that this was some twisted nightmare, deep in your psyche. Something out of the stories they tell at the camp to keep you straying too far; the ramblings of another girl, lost in myth and fantasy. But hope was abandoned long ago: long before you were dragged here against your will. But as your toes shift in the sheets, naked skin against the mattress; you feel your body shudder in pleasure and despair.

The sheets are drenched in slick - drenched. It makes your head feel dizzy as you shake under the covers, peeling them back to reveal the pillow you jammed between your legs in the midst of the night. It's saturated from where you thrust against it, trying desperately in a sleepy haze to ease the pressure in your cunt. Fuck; your legs are coated, the mattress damp and slippy. How can someone lose this much fluid this fast? It seems impossible; madness, even now. You imagine the smell must be overwhelming for Kylo - he was hardly able to control himself with just the most simple scent of your arousal.

God: at the thought, you feel your stomach tighten, threatening to spill more slick from you. Fuck, you can see why this becomes deadly in this broken wasteland. Fresh water is scarce - people die of dehydration within the day.

"Ben" you croak, rolling softly in the sheets as you move to sift through his hair with your fingers. Please, Kylo. Please stop this burning in my blood.

But your fingers find no purchase on him; your eyes shooting open with a start as you let your weak arms prop you up. The bed is empty - his scent still clinging to the sheets in a way that makes you squirm, hinting that he's still nearby. But you find nothing of him, nothing tangible enough to keep you anchored as you groan, body shuddering with the rolling heat crashing over you. It's too fucking hot, too fucking hot!

Your whole body aches as you move to stand at the edge of the bed: knees knocking as a whimper escapes you, slick dripping to your knees in a wet heat. You resolve just to get some water - once you've poured a glass out, you'll fuck your fingers until Kylo comes back from wherever the hell he's gone. Your feet ache, naked body unsupported as you hobble to the sink; taking a glass from the countertop and filling it with water from the tap. The second you press it to your lips you feel your body hum with satisfaction - yes. God yes. So thirsty.

Downing at least half a dozen glasses, your fingers drift between your legs; eliciting a bitten off moan as you fight the urge to just collapse here. But that's when you notice the sound of running water from the bathroom; a wet hiss driving you to the doorway, curiosity blooming in your mind. Kylo? Is that...is he showering?

Your nails dig into the paintwork as you give the door a light push; revealing a scene that you struggle to comprehend.

The cracked white tiling that covers the room is misted with spray from the shower head, water sloshing out at some speed. The room itself is _freezing;_ you sense the water became cold long ago, relatively speaking. And collapsed on the floor, chest heaving as his back rests on one of the walls: Kylo is slumped, drenched through and shuddering.

And that's not all you notice.

A hiss escapes his lips; his hand between his legs sliding up and down his cock slowly, so slowly. His second hand curls around the base, where the knot is swollen and angry: cum oozing from the hardness at the tip and washing away in the spray of the water. Cumming is supposed to be something to look forward to - but he looks fucking miserable. Exhausted. Nearly sheet-white as his brow creases, giving little reprieve before he massages the knot again. His fingers look wrinkled, even from a distance. How long has he been at this?

"Are you..." you lick your lips, holding the door frame for support. "Is everything alright?"

At first, you wonder if he hears you. A grunt escapes his lips, lashes fluttering as he seems to take a moment to consider his bearings. His soft, honey hued eyes are black as pitch: wild and animalistic, burning with a primal need competing with a soul-rending exhaustion.

_"No"._

Yeah, that's not a shocker.

"Do you need help?"

For a second, his lip quivers as though he's mulling over a response - but his eyes roll back into his head, a gasp on his lips as his knuckles turn white from kneading his knot. It's brutal to watch him claw at himself like that; but predictably, heat pools between your legs, slick gathering there enough to make your head spin. Why?! You can barely smell him as the cool water runs over his skin, dousing the heady aroma that makes it so hard to concentrate - so why does the mere sight of him do this to you? It's frustrating and ridiculous.

"Can you-" he gasps, choking on his words as he thrusts into his hand "-can you get out of here? It was _stopping_ and now it's starting again because I can fucking _smell_ you!"

"How long has this been going-"

"-Since the middle of the fucking night!" he hisses through clenched teeth, lips peeling back as he throws his head back against the tiles. It smacks unceremoniously, making you wince a little. "This whole place...it's overwhelming. God, I can't...I-I need to get through this-"

No. No, no no. He can't just...sit in here, waiting for it to pass. You need him, need him to douse the fire. You can't do that alone. Shit, the only time it doesn't hurt is when he's knotted deep in you. He _has_ to. You need someone to _help_ you.

 _"Ben"_ you groan out in protest; nails digging into the flaky paintwork on the doorframe. "I can't do this _without_ you. It _hurts_ ".

At your whines, Kylo makes a guttural noise; a thick and heady sound as a rope of cum spurts onto his stomach. His knot seems to engorge a little, swelling as he hammers his fist against the floor.

"FUCK!" he cries out. "I DIDN'T WANT THIS! I DON'T FUCKING WANT THIS!". His eyes redden, his cheeks blushing as he sniffles, rubbing calloused fingers against his brow forcefully as he groans and twists. It's pathetic and horrible and so, so sad. Why would Snoke do this to him? To any of you? What, is it some sick means of control? Pump someone full of hormones and just...give them a breakdown once every few months so they don't get too comfortable?

You can't help yourself; you feel your legs wobble as you slide down the doorframe, your legs splaying out as you let yourself sit on the tiled floor. Its cold against the warm slick on your thighs; but something about it makes your body feel some sense of relief. Like ice water on a burn from getting too close to a lit flame. You run a shaky hand through your hair; already dampening from the moisture in the air. Kylo doesn't look up; his eyes pinched by one hand and the other at the base of his cock. God, the circles under his eyes - did he sleep at all? Even a little? 

"I'm going to come over to you" you swallow thickly, muscles in your stomach clenching at the thought of being close to him again "if that's alright".

Kylo sobs silently into his fingertips, but jerks his head in a little nod. Black locks drip rivulets down his cheeks, making him look younger. Sharper.

With a groan of discomfort, you move towards him - scooting on the cold tiles as you let your body become engulfed by the freezing water. An involuntary shudder passes over you as you sit next to him, your shoulder just brushing his own. From here, you can see the way his whole body is shaking; the way his lips are swollen and red from him biting down on them so hard. Being this close to him, you can smell the faint perfume trailing from his skin; your cunt clenches in apprehension, body trembling as you tense your muscles to hold in the wave of slick threatening to drip out of you.

"This will pass" you whisper, pressing your lips to his shoulder as you murmur into his skin. He tastes like heaven on your tongue; cool skin mesmerizing on your lips.

Kylo just whimpers; his nose finding its way to the crook of your neck and nosing at the skin there. Something about it makes you tingle: makes you feel limp against him. As though he's scratching an itch you never knew you had. It goads you as you swing your legs over his lap: examining his cock to see whether his knot has deflated enough to take him. At the very least, he seems to have stopped cumming for long enough that it doesn't feel like a wasted effort. His lips mouth at your collarbone, making you squirm as slick drips onto his cock.

"Jesus" Kylo groans, teeth clenched. "Can you...tell me about something. Tell me a story".

You nod enthusiastically, burning in your blood kicking you into overdrive as you guide his cock into the wet heat between your legs. A gasp escapes your lips; Kylo makes more of a pained hiss, as though he's caught somewhere between perfect bliss and painful over-stimulation. He's so hard; even with everything, all that cum has left him rock hard and blissfully good inside you.

"What-" you sigh, rocking your hips as he leans into your chest "-what kind of story?"

_"Anything"._

You let out a high-pitched noise of affirmation; your fingers reaching up to tug a little on his hair. His cock suddenly hardens dangerously, and he gives a little hiss of warning. _Please don't tease me right now._

"You remember how back at camp we had those-" you lick your lips, slick wet and heavy on his cock. "Those trees with the - mmmmhn - with the prickly seeds on them?"

"By the Old Depot?"

A hum escapes your lips, your thrusts becoming more jagged. Kylo's swollen lips lean in to press to yours briefly; his tongue lapping at your teeth as you both pant, sharing the same air.

"Well, we had this...this bet we pooled. We found some pre-war liquor and decided to - to drunkenly race to the top with those hats from the dress up bucket in Maz's office on".

Kylo huffs a pained laugh; his lips quivering as he thrusts upward, trying to find release. To get deeper, do more; to quench the fire threatening you both.

"Fuck" he moans; biting down on his lip as his teeth grit together "who...shit, I...who won?"

"Finn" you swallowed "he tied our laces together. Poe nearly made it with half a boot dangling off but got a dodgy branch".

Kylo does actually laugh at that; though the joy is short lived as you feel pressure building inside you, the fire threatening to burn too hot. Jesus, fuck, you need to...your hand pushes at your clit, fingers riding at the sensitive area as you thrust down onto Kylo in desperation. Slick pours from you as bliss claims you; white-hot burning in your vision as you cry out his name. God, it's so good. So fucking good.

"Oh fuck!" Kylo cries out; his hands jamming onto your hips and holding you in place as his face scrunches up, knot at the base of his cock swelling with blood as you feel your body pumped full of cum. The sound he makes is exquisite; the way his face flushes with that sudden onslaught of innocence makes your head pound. This time, you're incredibly careful to remain perfectly still: even as you lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. Your breathing is out of sync, bodies heaving as you rest against one another, boneless and joined and exhausted and cold.

It's not a fairytale, not even close. But it's relief, relief in the most basic form of the word. Relief you both need.

"At this rate" you chuckle darkly, sighing as you rub your forehead against his "I'll end up pregnant, you know".

"Oh God" Kylo moans; wincing "that's going to make-"

His hips stutter as his sentence is cut off when load of cum spurts into you, his body almost desperate to seal its own fate in that regard. Fuck, that was a big one: you can almost feel that load filling you, tugging at his knot as you're so bloated with it. Did you mentioning that...turn him on? Or was that some sort of weird...biological thing? Maybe it's all the same thing. You're not sure if you're even in the right frame of mind to figure it out.

"Please" he begs, legs trembling "please don't bring that up when I'm...fucking _trying_ to calm down. You can't joke about that. I'm wired to...if you make me think about it I get this..."

"It's fine".

He gives a little moan; burying his face into the crook of your neck again.

"Sorry" Kylo mutters into your skin, water running down the crease of his collarbone "know it's a lot to take in. Know I'm a prick".

"You're very tolerable" you chuckle "you always used to be such a little shit, you know that?"

You press your lips to the dark, dripping locks on his head: enjoying the taste of him dancing on your tongue. Sweet and cool and satisfying.

"Only to you".

"Why was that?"

Kylo doesn't look up as the water patters down on you both; a yawn leaving his lips as he seems to still a little.

"Guess I had a thing for you" he swallows thickly, his hands moving up your back to embrace you. "Even then".

What? Even then? That just raises a thousand questions. Are you supposed to take that as him having a thing for you now? I mean it's filling a need but...seriously? You always did have a little crush on him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, smiling a little into his hair.

But after a few moments, you realise he's softly breathing through his nose: peacefully drifting into a comfortable sleep. You reach up and turn off the cold water, resting your chin on him and letting your eyes flutter shut.

It all comes out in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God is dead; I killed him. WITH KYLO PORN  
> More great chapter ideas are buzzin in my brain so watch this space
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	4. Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't leave him. You can't. He can't do this without you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for rape threats from a third party and generally violent stuff happening! Read the tags kids.

_"Ben"._

In his rut-addled mind: there is no sense to it. Everything is and isn't, all at once. He remembers...was he in the shower? You were there. No, more; he had knotted you, holding you close. Is he still there? Is that now, or was that...before?

Kylo lets a low sigh pass his lips; running a hand over his face. He's dry - laying on soft blankets, wound around him heavily. This always happens when he ruts; he tosses and turns, seeking friction in the night, an escape from the fever in his bones. His toes curl and uncurl experimentally, and he notes that he's in bed, somehow. Naked as ever. He wishes he could remember how the hell he got back into the bed - but to be honest, his memories are wildly unstable. They curl and fluctuate like water over stone: a fever that eats him alive.

His eyes flutter open, lips creased as he seeks your warmth. Your smell clings to everything - the roof of his mouth is filled with it, making him radiate this shocking heat. The sweetest smell, the most heavenly smell: the gland on his neck throbs violently as his hips thrust upward, acting on reflex.

But your scent is dulled. A memory, printed on the room in the place you used to be.

His muscles ripple as he shoots upward, the bed empty. The apartment is bare; your boots are gone. His armour is gone. With it? His keys. His pocket knife.

No, no, no, no...

Oh God. Oh God. No, no. You're not supposed to leave. You can't leave him. Isn't he good enough? He tried to keep you safe. He tried to make you happy. Why aren't you happy with him? Is he not a good mate? Not patient, not willing? Should he have provided more? 

Kylo's calloused palms press into his eyes, pushing down until he sees stars. Fuck. He's not thinking straight. It's this rut, it's this stupid damn rut making him _obsessive_ and pitiful and _scared_. You're not _his._  You're a human being, for Christ's sake. This drug doesn't change that; it _shouldn't_ change that.

 _She's probably fucking another Alpha right now,_ the voice in his head hisses maliciously.

He feels tears well up in the corners of his eyes, biting down on emotions that he doesn't understand. 

 _"Shut up"_ , he groans, his heart wrenching in his chest as though he's getting shocked by a live wire. He staggers to his feet; the world spinning wildly as he nearly faceplants into the back of the couch, staggering on weak legs across the floor. No, no, no. Shit. His rational mind is scattered to the wind; his muscles tensed, breathing heavy and wild. He can't decide how to proceed - he's not _safe,_ his mate isn't _safe_ , he's in the peak of his rut and his hormones are wild but she doesn't _want him._

_Can't even make a good nest. Jerked off during your rut and made her leave. Some provider you are._

Kylo gulps back the rising feelings of insecurity in his throat, grabbing at the heavy red curtains around his bed and yanking them from the wall. The muscles in his arms pop with the strain as the curtain rods clatter around him, one nearly hitting him in his bare back. He throws them down onto the bed, frenzied - pulling each one from the hook and setting it down on the bed. _Safe. He needs to keep her safe. Safe, safe._

His teeth are chattering as he pulls open his drawers; clothes spilling out, a variety of cloth undershirts littering the floor. They're bulky and a little scratchy, but he's too far gone - his pupils blown to hell, goosebumps on his skin as he arranges them against the red tapestries.

He leans against the nest, but fuck. The edge of a pillow scratches at a bruise on his back, and he hisses like a fucking cat. _Not safe. T_ hick fingers yank the cotton of the pillows apart, down feathers littering the nest as he arranges them. Oh, yes. She'll love this. She'll come back for this. _Good provider._

 _"No"_ he croaks; breathing in your scent from the blanket. God, he can still smell your slick - needy and desperate for his thick knot, needy and desperate for him. He huffs your scent into his mouth, hand reaching out to stroke at his hardened cock. A whimper escapes his throat as he twists, dark hair tangling across his forehead, puffy and frizzed from the cold water of the shower. If he just stays here, maybe he can just...get through his rut like this. Yes, just fuck his hand until his wrist is limp; fuck his hand to the smell of your slick on the sheets. Ask for another mate, another girl. Another...

But even the thought makes his heart hammer in his chest; body trembling in a deep resistance. He's already knotted you - his body doesn't want some Processed girl from back-end nowhere. His knot won't settle when its raw from the callouses in his hand.

He needs you. Needs your cunt.

It takes every drop of energy Kylo Ren has - but he wades out from the soft blankets and pulls on a pair of pants. His hard cock strains against the fabric, and he palms the bulge a little, moaning into his hand as your scent carries through the air.

_Focus._

His feet are shaky as he pulls on his massive boots, making his way to the door and throwing it open as though he might take it from its hinges. He must look a sight - Commander of this slaving outfit, shirtless and beaded in sweat and _smelling_ of raw Alpha pheromones. Everything about him screams that he's at the peak of his rut: he can feel the way his muscles bulge at the fabric clinging to his legs, the way his senses are dialed just a little too high to be comfortable. There's a reason they give this particular Process to everyone in the Pit before their first fight - it makes you impulsive. Dangerous. 

It shows.

* * *

 

"I'll break your goddamn fingers" you hiss, your heavy boot hitting back against the cracked brickwork. The man's beady eyes take you in as though you're some sort of scurrying animal, red hair slicked back as he flexes his fingers around the taught muscles of your arm. Slick pools through Kylo's padded uniform, too large on you to give a proper protective barrier on your skin. You wish this horrible man didn't make your body ache; but nothing in your mind is reasonable. 

This heat doesn't care who you fuck.

"Poor little Omega. So desperate for a good fucking. No Ren to take care of you?". He tuts, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he backs you up against the wall. You want to run; to slit his throat and be done with it. But your hands are pinned, heart in your throat as you bare your teeth.

"I don't need him. I don't need you".

"Mmmm", the man grins, cold and menacing and dark. "But you smell like you do". He leans in toward you, breathing deeply through his nose. The gland on your neck throbs bitterly, cramps in your stomach building as you squeeze your legs together. Fuck. You'd made it to the edge of the encampment, so close to freedom - so close to getting out. But nothing's ever that simple, is it? Always just two steps away from where you need to be.

"I SAID GET THE F-"

But your screams are cut off; cut off as the beady little man is yanked backward, pulled to the floor as his harsh grip yanks at your wrist, giving you a chance to slip free of his grasp. Everything happens in a flurry of movement - the man protests as he makes contact with the dusty concrete. The smell of blood hits the air, heady and thick; the red-haired man screaming with fury and pain as he lashes out against a man who won't let him get up - his fist making contact with your attacker's face over and over again. A bare, pale torso straddling him: dark hair obscuring your view.

Kylo. Oh my god.

He's sweating and rippling as he pounds the red-haired guy into the dirt as though it's nothing; the guy beneath him writhing and cussing and spitting but with no use, no use at all. Kylo is a mass of muscle and burning pheromones: and you can't look away. Not even for a moment. His fist connects with the man's jaw again: blood now soaking the pavement.

You lick your lips: body trembling. Adrenaline hits you like a freight train, and you realise Kylo Ren is going to straight up murder this guy on the ground in front of you with his _bare fucking fists._

"Kylo-" you offer weakly, gripping your bruised wrist as you lick your lips.

Kylo doesn't even look up; doesn't flinch at all. There's something feral in the way he moves, in the way he strikes the man again and again and again: it's not _him_ in there. He's a blank form; rage incarnate. Deadly and powerful and terrifying.  He goes for the man's shoulder, and the man beneath him just lolls about. Unconscious. Bleeding like mad. 

"BEN!" you cry out, throwing your palm down onto his shoulder to capture his attention.

He whirls on you immediately: letting the man's prone form slump beneath him as he stands, panting heavily like a wild animal. His eyes are darker than you've ever seen them: hair pasted with sweat as he pants desperately. His whole body heaves with the effort - heaves as the sweat and blood drips from his bruised knuckles. He's so, so huge: every part of him screaming out that he can protect you from anything, everything. 

 _"Stop._ Ben _._ _Enough"._

Kylo's face is blank: his head tipping to the side. Curiosity. An alien, strange curiosity. He moves to you, hands reaching to spread out on either side of the wall behind your head. Oh god, he smells so _good:_ so good that you feel your muscles clench, whimpering as fresh slick trickles down your legs.

In a move that is so utterly bizarre to you, Kylo bends his head, opening his mouth like some sort of cat and sniffing at the air around you. He can smell it, you realise - that dripping slick, that heat in your stomach clawing at your skin. His eyes roll back: a quiet growl in the back of his throat.

_"Mine"._

Oh my fucking god. Your legs weaken underneath you at his words, at his possessive stare - the pheromones leaking off of him, telling you everything you need to know: _safe, mate, mate will protect._ The part of you that was compelled to run from him goes utterly slack as he reaches out to pull you closer, sweeping you up into his arms as you wrap your hands around his neck. You want to be safe; you want to go back to that little room and be close, closer, quell that heat blooming inside you.

Kylo says nothing as he carries you over the debris: his nose buried in your neck as he makes this odd huffing noise. He's shaking against you; caught in a fever you don't quite understand. But as you move away from the brick wall, you look back at the red-haired man's prone form, bloodied and beaten on the floor.

Something in the bruises on his skin makes your body shudder.

* * *

 

You cross the threshold into his quarters as night begins to fall.

The room is lit by the automatic lighting - a low glow as Kylo gives the door a kick shut with his boot. It slams unceremoniously, and he feels you flinch a little, looking around the room as your eyes zero in on the nest he's made from the scrounged material.

"Ben...what the...the bed-"

Kylo gives a deep growl; turning you to set you down next to the nest. God, his mind is swimming - even as he places you down his mind devolves, his tongue seeking yours and coaxing deep kisses from your lips.

"A nest" he breathes, pushing his body flush against yours. Oh, shit: the smell of slick wafts upward, and he slowly grinds against you. "Safe. A safe place. For our little pups".

Your hand flattens against his chest, pushing him back away from you. 

_See? She doesn't want your stupid pups. She doesn't want your shitty nest._

"You're talking jibberish".

Kylo growls in frustration: the burning in his skin drowning out any sense from his mind. He's got to fucking knot you: knot you now. It hurts so much; he feels like he's burning. Why aren't you burning? Can't you see how much he wants to fuck you?

His jaw works, chewing the inside of his cheek as he tries to stifle the rising need. His mind won't get the words out in the right order - he doesn't want to have to explain this; not without his cock buried deep in your cunt, quenching the fire in his veins.

"Need to keep you safe" he sighs, nipping at your lips as he struggles to kick off his boots "need to... _please..._ knot you. It hurts".

He feels so fucking pitiful: but you both need this. He can smell the way you're dripping for him - and you don't need to be told twice as you peel the armour from your skin. Oh god, yes. Please. Kicking your boots off, you tug him down onto the soft padding of the nest, and _gods_. Something in the thought of it makes his naked body shudder against you, his breath hot as he sucks a kiss to the skin at the crook of your neck.

"Jesus, Ben!" you cry out, slick pouring from you and soaking through one of the shirts he used to line it. He's never going to wash that shirt again. Nibbling at your gland gives him this rush of adrenaline: and he wastes no time in slowly sinking down into you, body shuddering as he bottoms out.

"Oh God" Kylo groans, squeezing his eyes shut as he leans over you. "Mmmf-fuck. God, feels like heaven. So sublime".

You nod emphatically, your scent drifting up to his nose and making him thrust deeply. Oh my god, he's not going to last. He wants to last, he wants to last and last and capture this moment: but he can feel the way he's desperate, he needs to cum more than anything, feel the way you're so tight and deep around him-

"You feel safe" he pants, leaning down to press his lips to your nipple, biting gently. You moan, and he sees starts dance at his vision. "Tell me. Tell me you feel safe".

"Ben; you saved me. You saved me and you - shit - and you cared for me so well. And this nest is beautiful, and I-"

"-M'gonna knot you so fucking hard. So hard. Give you so many pups, and you'll - _oh god oh god_ \- you'll be swollen with my little pups and I'll protect you, an-and... _fuck_ -"

Your muscles clench dangerously, a lewd whimper hitting his ears as his dark hair falls around his face. God, he's never been this close for this long - this feels so fucking lewd; every fantasy he's ever had, spooling out before him-

"Yes!" you pant "oh god, Ben! Alpha!"

"OH FUCK!" he screams, his whole body vibrating as his knot swells and swells and swells. Everything is white-hot; he can't feel his toes, can't feel his body. He's floating, floating above himself with the force of his orgasm: pumping you with cum in such a way that your cunt spasms with the feeling of him hitting you. He gives one final thrust, shaking from stimulation as his arms give out. Shit; he can feel his knot is embarrassingly, painfully swollen: as though his cock is worried you'll run off again.

He must look a sight, because you press a kiss to his cheek and slowly guide him onto his side. You're gentle - so, so gentle - as though you're trying to prevent him staying pent up. Which would be a lovely thought: but his knot is swollen as all hell and it's definitely a wasted effort. Part of him considers milking it out; he has no idea how long it'll take to go down at this rate. Squeezing it might help.

It also might just make it inflate.

"Christ, do you need help?"

You sound genuinely concerned - Kylo's body is taught, muscles clenching as he bites down on his lip.

"Don't-" he gasps, choking violently as he feels another pulse of cum leave his body. You squirm a little, and his knot clenches; preparing to go again "-Need to l-let it mmm-come out. You okay?"

You give a little nod; but Kylo can tell by the glint in your eye - he's just a little too swollen. It must sting to be stretched to that extent.

"Let me try something?" you ask: pressing a little kiss to the tip of his nose. His whole body slackens as he weakly nods; staying still as you lean in with a small wince. Slowly, gently: you let your teeth slide against the swollen gland on his neck, gently stroking at the base of his knot.

Kylo cries out so loudly he swears the whole camp must hear - cumming and cumming and cumming, pumping wildly as his eyes roll back into his head. Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ. It seems to go on forever; your cunt clenching as it fills with as much cum as can fit, dripping around his slowly deflating knot.

"Mmmnnhh! God! Shit!"

Expletives fall from his lips as his body strains, his knot deflating to a more reasonable size again. You seem to slacken against him, burrowing deeper into the nest.

"I'm sorry I ran" you whisper into his hair "I wasn't sure...I thought I could..."

You stutter on your words, but Kylo's calloused fingers come up to trace lines on your back. Your skin smells smooth and homely - nestled deep in your nest, his knot buried deep inside you.

Kylo gives a pointed huff to the voice in his head. _See?_

"It's alright" he breathes, hips stuttering as he moans into your skin. "Nhn-not your fault. I tried to run when th-they took me".

It's an admission he never thought he'd make; but here you are. And for once, Kylo Ren doesn't care about tomorrow, or back then, or even the world that could've been. There's just you, his mate, holding him close: calming the fear and need in his heart.

For now: that's enough.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew omg I'm exhausted after writing that. Also I need a glass of water. Jesus. What a chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	5. Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everything means something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben gets an origin story. It's KNOT a laughing matter  
> Baddumm chhh
> 
> No, seriously: this chapter is fucking harrowing. It's violent and gritty and it deals with trauma and mental health. People are made to do things they do not want to do. Ben is in a lot of pain and sees things that most people should never see. Please care for yourselves if you read this. If you decide not to; that's okay. You can skip this chapter; I'll be picking up from chapter 4 on the next one. Read the tags, drink water. Love yourselves. Safety before fanfiction.

Ben wakes with the taste of blood on his tongue.

His whole body is rigid as he stirs on the stone floor; memories slipping through his mind like water over the riverbed. The last few weeks have been hellish - something from a nightmare, tearing at his subconscious. Even now, as he shuffles to sit up straight in the cold cell: he squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment and prays he'll wake up back home. Wake up to his mother barking about rations, or to the sound of kids playing on the highway.

He's already wasting away: he can feel it happening. He's never been particularly built - he's tall, but it comes with this lanky disposition. Even now, in the midst of his mid-twenties: he's this gangly mess of arms and legs, short hair and ears that protrude just a little too much for his liking. But right now - right now he's weaker than he's ever been. Slavery was never promised to be glamorous, but he's liable to die of starvation at this rate. 

His hands move to rub his face, trying to soothe some of the rigid tension from his battered features. As his hands glide upward, they make contact with the metal collar jammed around his throat. It's cold and depressing and the most degrading thing he's ever seen - and as if to hammer that point home, it gives a little beep as he fiddles with it. Shit, okay. He's got to stop doing that. One of the guys he came in with tried to claw it off; and the fucking thing exploded. Actually exploded. Splattered Ben's face with bits of brain and guts and powder.

The smell. God, he'll never forget the smell.

Ben skits to his feet, wobbling unceremoniously as his hands seek out the bars of this little cell they keep him in. It's almost _inhuman;_ keeping people in these dark, musty cells like that. They let him out for the weirdest things - sometimes, it's just smashing up piles of rock until he passes out from the exhaustion. Other times, it's more...clinical. Taking his measurements. Running white blood cell counts. Grip testing. 

As though he's cattle or something.

They call it Induction: once youve been 'acquired' you spend two or so weeks in a cell while they figure out whether they're going to sell you or something. It's this slavery limbo that all the guys who get the misfortune of ending up here have to go through. Ben's not sure what happens to the women - but something tells him he doesn't want to know. Something tells him being caged like an animal while he waits to find out what they're going to do with him isn't the lowest rung on this ladder.

His hands grip the bars as he stares out at the cell opposite; trying to make out the silhouette of his friend in the dark. Friend is a liberal term for whatever they are - merchandise thrown in the same dark nightmare. But he's isolated and lonely; and having someone there just...helps, somehow.

"Alex?" he asks, swallowing hard. His voice is hoarse from lack of use as he squeezes the bars, knuckles white. "Aaaaaaaalex?"

A sound comes from the mess of blankets in the scratchy little cot; it's not a pleasant sound at all. Almost as though his lungs are whistling out air as he tries to speak, a rumbling in his chest like an animalistic growl. His whole body is buried under the thatch sheets - Ben can see his chest rising and falling a little too fast under all of that fabric.

"Piss off, Ben."

Ben scoffs.

"Where's the sour mood coming from?"

Alex huffs; trying to catch his breath as he gives a shudder. Ben taps his fingertips against the cold metal of the bars, his bare feet padding on the floor to keep warm.

"Got flu."

Ben takes a step backward; putting some distance between him and the mess of blankets. No, no no. Flu could fucking kill him down here. He's too weak for that.

"Shit."

"They gave it to me on purpose."

Ben swears he didn't hear that right. He grips his own wrist, flicking at his pulse point out of habit. Much too thin. Could he always fit his fingers around it this well? He used to do this as a kid to calm himself down - but now it's just a reminder that everything's gone south.

"You're kidding."

Alex doesn't respond.

"Why the fuck would they do that?"

"Dunno. But I-" Alex gives a short rasping moan; peeling back the top end of the scratchy blanket. Ben can make out his blonde hair in the dark - was it always that long and thick? Is he keeping track of time in the right way? He's not sure of anything anymore. He must be losing it. "-feel like shit. They gave me a shot a few hours ago, told me it was for the infection in my foot. I'm aching all over. Bastards gave me flu."

Ben licks his lips, feeling his heart pick up. That's monstrous. Worse than monstrous. Flu in this wasteland is deadly; medicine is luxury, pretty much. Down here, Alex will probably die without treatment.

"I'm so sorry."

Alex is silent for a moment.

"Don't tru-"

Ben scrambles backward into the cell wall as fluorescent lighting ignites on the ceiling, throwing white glows onto the stone walls. He's incredibly disoriented: he can't see a fucking thing as his ankle hits the stonework and he tries to sink back into it. His heart is up in his ears - footsteps in the dungeon as the sounds of clattering bars make him feel nervous and terrified. He wants to sink away into the covers as Alex has: but it's too late now. He's frozen in place, trembling like a scared little boy.

A sound close to him plunges him back into reality: rough hands on his tattered clothes as someone mutters under their breath.

"Get the fuck off of me!" Ben hisses, twisting out of their grip. But he's too weak - too weak to do anything. Flailing against stone as they grab him by the biceps and drag him, kicking and screaming, through the dark and narrow room. Alex makes a sound of protest; but what can he do? He's dying as it is. His protests won't stop these people from getting what they want out of him.

His collar clatters and jangles as he snarls viciously, fingernails digging into the brick house of a man who holds him firmly. The man doesn't even flinch; and Ben's just a ragdoll, just a toy as they lead him through corridors and corridors of darkness and dampness and people whimpering out. He tries not to think about it - tries to think of better times. Of playing catch with Poe down by the quarry; of getting drunk on Finn's birthday.

Your voice when you would sing under your breath as you dried clothes on the line. He could almost hear it - the way you'd hum softly as though the world wasn't falling apart.

God, he'd give anything to hear you sing again.

Ben is forced into a metal chair; his bare feet kicking out as metal cuffs click into place to hold him to it. He's been in this room before, he thinks - it's one of those weird medical bays. Unlike everything else in this building, this room almost seems out of place. As though it's maintained and cared for. But he still notices how the white linoleum floor is covered in thick scratches from endless scuffles to get away - the stain on the far wall that could be anything, but he just knows it's blood. The room is utterly empty, save for a metal bed, a chrome toilet and a little white sink. One of the walls is entirely a mirror: or it's meant to resemble one, anyway. One way glass, he assumes. 

He won't look at himself in it. He doesn't want to see what weeks of starvation look like on a man who already feels shame when he steps out of the shower. He's not strong enough for it.

A woman sits opposite him: the tallest woman he's ever seen. Thin blonde hair cropped short as it can be; eyes that pierce through him. Everything about her reeks of discipline and order; as though his weak attempts to escape are just a fly in the ointment. 

"Ben, is it?" she asks politely, glancing down at a flipchart in her hands. She skims the pages with her index finger as Ben stares on: straining his wrists against the cuffs. He can barely move them to his lap without the muscles in his forearms popping and straining; they're so tightly bound to the chair that he's screwed if he tries to do anything but sit there obediently.

He doesn't respond - chewing the inside of his cheek and dropping his gaze.

The blonde woman sighs.

"Attending physician. Phasma."

Ben scoffs. "That's not a real name."

She gives a little smirk; scribbling something down. Her handwriting is fucking terrible - but Ben cranes his head to see what she's writing. Endless scrawl dots the pages; all of it referencing him. Height. Weight. Eye colour. Blood type. Platelet count. Medical history. Bone density. Psychological profile. Everything they've documented since he arrived here: his entire life, condensed down into one A4 page that glares back at him. He can't read the specifics, but he hopes they've picked up on those little imperfections that will make him shitty stock for their slaving lifestyle.

General anxiety. PTSD. Anemia. Fibromyalgia. Insomnia. Depression. A tendency towards being a sarcastic little fuck.

Her hands reach down to a little black microphone on her collar, clicking a button as she speaks into it.

"Twenty-six. Aggression normal. Muscle mass rapidly declining. Yeah, I was-" she pauses, listening to some scratchy voice through an earpiece jammed in place "-starvation. Low iron levels. B12 has dipped. No; he won't last if we don't..." she waits and waits, checking his chart "...no. I'll start with a single. Heart could give out in this condition. He's at 120 over 60, but he's small - has to be gradual. We've made this mistake before. No...Well, I was going to just do it now. Keep him here for observation. I'm worried the cell block will push his heart rate up. Okay...yes, Supreme Leader. Of course."

Ben's hands grip his knees; but he can feel them tightening on the tight cloth of these shitty pants. He's not going to let them give him the flu or whatever the fuck kind of crazy illness they've given Alex - he'll hiss and spit and scream. Whatever he has to do.

Phasma reaches into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a thick syringe. The liquid bubbling in the tube is clear; she gives it a tap for good measure.

"This'll bring your health back up to standard. Get you in fighting shape" she says; her eyes dead set on his. As though she's enjoying this, somehow.

Ben arches away, a black curl of short hair flitting to his ears. Nope. No fucking way.

"Stay away from me", he spits through gritted teeth. "You made Alex sick."

Phasma hums, twisting the needle in her hands.

"He'll get better. He'll acclimatize for a few days - and it hurts like hell. But his foot will heal. It all will. It's a cure, Ben - we're dying. The radiation killed the world, and there aren't enough of us left to bring it back. But  _this_ will bring us back. You can bring us back. If you're lucky, if it works and you play by the rules - they'll let you choose a girl of your own. Any of the Processed girls; you can take whoever you like."

Ben's whole body goes rigid: a cold, disbelieving laugh breaking his lips.

"You're fucking sick. All of you. You're crazy. Like hell I'm going to be part of this circle of life insanity you're playing at-"

"-Unfortunately, Ben" Phasma leans in, licking her lips "I doubt you have much of a choice."

And Ben screams and screams, kicking wildly and shuffling and panting and screaming until his vocal chords feel like they're ripping from his throat. His eyes clamp shut as he lashes out, whirling and cursing against his bonds. The collar on his neck beeps in warning: three, four, five. But it's all just pointless, it's pointless because he can hardly _move,_ let alone resist as something heavy slams into the side of his head and his body goes limp under him.

Another scratch on the linoleum flooring is added to the vast array as the needle pierces his neck, and everything goes dark.

* * *

 

When Ben was 18: he'd fallen from the second floor of an old quarry tower.

He'd been fucking around doing something stupid - drunk on bootlegged beer and thinking he could scale the outside of the building on a ledge. Poe had egged him on - or so he told himself. To be honest, 18 year old Ben didn't need any egging.

He'd fallen onto an old car wreck: the roof had caved under him. He'd always thought he would scream and cry - but the shock was the worst bit. It was like the pain didn't quite register with his body right. All of his muscles were tensed, his leg snapped, his wrist bent at a funny angle. Blood leaking from his nose. But it just felt like...like drifting. Like falling through water and watching yourself, plunging towards the depths in the reflection. Even as they re-set his leg, even as they snapped his wrist back into place; it was like there was this sheer pain that rolled through him and just shorted him out. 

It had been in the days after, when his muscles finally began to uncoil and release their tension, that he started sobbing from the wrenching agony in his body.

He never really remembered what that felt like - but he does now. Now, he's acquainted with it intrinsically.

God, it's maddening. The pain. Every muscle in his body is pulled wrought, so tight that moving it feels like it'll tear him in half. His heart is racing so fast that he can't feel anything, stars jumping at his vision as he gasps in pain. The little bed is pasted with sweat as he's tried, over and over and over, to get some kind of relief. Because his whole body is fucking _burning;_ from the way his toes feel like they're about to pop from their sockets to the way his scalp feels as though it's literally being scalded by flame. No part of him isn't wildly pulsing; even his tongue is aching, clashing with his teeth as he bites down a sob.

They don't care. Sometimes they walk in to check his vitals. He tries to lash out and scream and break their wrists - but he can't even move. What the fuck is happening to him? He's moving in and out of coherence. He doesn't remember sleeping - has he slept? But sometimes the lights go out for a while, and then they're on again. Maybe that signals the passing of minutes, or hours, or days. Sometimes they tip water into his mouth and down his throat; but it's not a relief. He doesn't want it. They try to put a drip on his wrist; but it's like his muscles are forcing the needle out of his skin, because it just won't stay put. If it does, he yanks it out when he rolls to the side just in time to vomit on the floor.

If they're concerned - they don't show it. They carry on around him as though he doesn't feel like he's going to die.

And eventually, somehow; he starts getting a sense of himself. The pain begins to dim enough that he can grab the cup from their hands; that he can keep down whatever paste they're feeding him. He never looks in the mirror; he always faces the concrete wall. Even when he staggers to his feet to take a piss - he doesn't dare look up. He's not sure he can comprehend himself, anyway.

Through the pain and the burning, after some time: a door opens. Phasma steps through - lips pressed into a thin line.

Ben doesn't say anything: he just turns to face the wall again, pulling the blankets up to cover him as he runs his thumb along the inside of his wrist. He can't loop his index finger and thumb around it anymore, he notes; and that's fucking terrifying. 

"You're settling."

Ben just squeezes his eyes shut; listening to the loud thrumming of his heart. The collar on his neck keeps rubbing at either side of his neck, just where it meets his shoulder blade: and it's tingling to no end. So itchy, so fucking itchy. Like he's allergic to the metal or something.

"Ben; I need you to sit so I can check your vitals."

He doesn't move; doesn't say anything. He just scoffs.

"No."

"We can do this one of two ways" Phasma loudly remarks "either you can sit up right now and let me check your vitals to see if you're ready to leave, or you're about to have a very unpleasant twenty-four hours as we run this test in the less orthodox way. I'm good for either."

It's either a bluff or a promise; and at this point Ben doesn't give a shit which it is. He's exhausted and he's in pain and he's bitterly sad - but he's also the most stubborn person he's ever met. He wants to keep remembering that, if that's all he's got left now. His mother used to talk about the value of suffering: 'the only thing you get to choose in this life is what you're willing to suffer for'. So no; he's not going to just roll over and let these people win. He'll die first. He'll probably die anyway, thinking about it.

There's a clicking noise; and the sound of insane shuffling and high-pitched screaming. Ben does jolt to the side at that; his eyes trailing from his pillow to the scene in front of him he doesn't really understand.

One of those burly guys who dragged him in here is standing in the middle of the room, holding a wet towel slung over one arm. Tucked under the other, there's this...girl? Ben's never seen her before in her life. Pretty enough; long black hair and dark eyes. She must be about his age - a gag pushed between her lips as she sobs into it. Ben makes eye contact with her, and it's like she's fucking _terrified_ of him. Her screams of protest get louder, bare feet skidding on the floor. He's not going to hurt her! What the fuck is going on?

Something's _wrong_ with her, though. Ben can't quite figure it out as he stares at her, wide-eyed. She's in this tattered nightdress that barely skims her thighs; but they're covered in something thick and clear, dripping to her knees. He can't figure it out - the scene in his head is weird to him. Is she some ploy? Are they going to make her torture him? What the hell's going on?

"What the fuck is this?" Ben rasps, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. His brow creases in confusion, annoyance: bare chest rippling as pain shoots through his spine.

Phasma shrugs, gesturing with her head. The burly looking man grabs the wet towel, folding it as the girl tries to twist away. He's about three times as strong as her; so it's nothing. She's just skidding and ragdolling as the man presses it to a spot on her neck, right next to where her shoulders meet her neck.

"The less orthodox way", Phasma shrugs. The man then pushes the towel to the girl's shaking thighs, gathering the clear liquid dripping to her knees. It's wild. It's insane. Something in the action makes the girl try to squeeze her legs together; but it's no good, and she huffs a breathy cry into her gag. More liquid drips down her legs. As though it's...as though it's coming from...

"What...That's not..."

Phasma takes the towel from the guy and he drags the girl out of the room, kicking and screaming and crying as she skids away through the door. It closes with a thud that echoes in time with Ben's heart; thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird. His mind can't process what he just saw: he doesn't understand. There's something _wrong_ with that girl; some kind of thing that makes Ben's stomach turn.

"You don't understand. You have a role in the new world, Ben. The longer you resist it, the more it'll hurt."

Phasma throws the towel at him - throws it at him. He scrambles away from it as though it's toxic; kicking his legs as he jumps from the bed. His shirt has been clawed away from his body; only a pair of thin, cloth pants keeping him warm as he moves to his feet. His body aches as though he's run a marathon, but he's not going to go near whatever the fuck that towel has on it. No goddamn way.

"We'll see you soon, Ben. Try not to make too much of a mess; the pillows are expensive."

And with that, Phasma steps through the doorway, into the thick darkness of the corridor.

Sweat sticks to Ben's chest as he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on - and what the odds are of him getting out of here could be. The door is triple bolted; so he's fucked if he'll manage to get the latches undone. Maybe the one-way window?

He whirls on it; the mirrored surface bouncing back the fluorescent lighting as he stares himself dead in the eyes. Except there's a minor problem, sending his mind into a blank state of pure terror:

That's not Ben he's looking at.

The stranger he sees has the same cheekbones as Ben. He's got the same brown eyes, the same thick lashes. Same constellations of freckles cascading on his pale skin. Same nose, same thick lips that curve a little at the edges. Some Ben, maybe. A distant cousin.

But he's not Ben at all, is he? He's taut and strong and very, very muscled. Thickly corded with it as though it's a river under his skin; everywhere muscle never used to be. He looks twice as wide with it all: his neck thicker, stomach chiseled as though from years of constant honing. More calloused hands. Legs that strain against the fabric of his pants with the bulging corded muscle on his thighs; taut, clenched chin. And his _hair:_  it should be impossible. But it skirts at the bottom of his chin, thick and wavy and dark and healthy. Rich in colour. Curled and strong.

Strong. He's so, so strong. He _feels_ strong.

Ben raises a hand; the stranger in the mirror does, too. Ben feels his lip tremble: the stranger in the mirror looks as though his eyes are red raw. Ready to flow with tears.

This isn't possible. It's not possible that this happened. How many days has he been here? Even if he imagined it had been months - this should be impossible. This kind of change takes years; it's as though his whole genetic code has been re-calibrated. The mesh that binds him has been intrinsically broken by that syringe, giving him a new canvas to work on. And perhaps Ben hated the old canvas - but he knew that canvas. Knew himself. When he hated himself; that was his. He owned his feelings about the way he looked.

He doesn't own anything anymore. Not even his body.

And nothing hammers that home more than when the buzz in his veins starts off. It's like a low hum in his bloodstream; something of a longing. He can't place where he's felt it before, not exactly - but it feels good. Feels sort of like when he was fifteen, and you held his hand when you'd hear a noise in the bushes while out hunting. Feels sort of like that sound of you singing, pegging out the washing. Little comforts. Homely. He doesn't remember the last time anything felt homely.

He wants to curl up under the sheets for comfort; he's feeling too heavy in his own skin, and he wants a little peace. It's confusing - is this a self-preservation instinct? His mind taking control to help him through this? He's not sure; but he doesn't care. It feels almost compulsive as he moves the blanket over, moves that towel, climbing into bed and draping his sheets over his aching body.

_Safe._

Yes - this is good. It's good. He feels as though he's closer to home than he's been in a long time: as he shuffles to push that towel away further, pain streaks through his bloodstream. No. It's cold on his hands and the water is refreshing. He should feel disgusted, but he doesn't; he pulls it closer and he feels as though that humming in his veins gets a little louder. Oh god. He has to bring it to his mouth; he doesn't know why. He's squirming under the blankets as he presses it to his nose, opening his mouth and breathing in drops of water and the smell of whatever the fuck that girl had on her legs.

Oh God, oh God. No, no, no. This isn't normal. He's not feeling right. Ben's brain is suddenly in a catastrophic storm of emotions: pulled in two directions like hands on wet tissue paper. He knows this isn't right - something's wrong. But it's almost painful how badly he's suddenly straining at the thin material of his pants, as though hormones have flooded his brain in all the wrong places. The towel smells so heavenly he fucking  _moans_ into it - smelling of everything he loves. Fresh and crisp and delicate and delicious: his cock so hard that he can actually feel himself trembling from the pressure.

"Fucking Hell" he groans, biting his lip as he shifts down the hem and strips himself of them. No, fuck: there's a one-way window there. They'll know what he's doing. This isn't private. This isn't _normal._ But that buzzing is starting to hurt him: he's desperate. He's never felt this desperate for anything in his life as he palms his cock, his eyes rolling back into his head with the sensation. Jesus, his cock is so much bigger now - how is it bigger? His hand doesn't feel as encompassing on it anymore; but he whimpers into the towel as he strokes himself; that new, thick hair pasted to his forehead with endless sweat.

Fuck. He's got to cum. He's got to cum or he's going to burst. Or burn up. The pressure in his balls is so intense it's almost as though they're straining inside him: he can't breathe from the way his stomach is so tense. His right hand strokes up and down with frighteningly harsh grip; his left arm slung over his eyes to maintain some semblance of control. Oh my god: this isn't enough. This could never be enough. He needs to fuck someone, needs to fuck so badly. Needs to have that dripping stuff around his cock, pooling down onto it as he takes a girl hard enough to make her see stars.

Yes. The fantasy of it makes him whimper: his blood boiling. He needs a girl, needs her cunt to clench around him as he pumps her full, so full of him that she can't walk straight. So full of him that she's going to get pregnant - of course she is. Needs to fuck her so often and so hard that she's swollen with his kid; swollen so much that he just cares for her and protects her and fucks her again and again and again and-

Ben's eyes roll back as his lips part; a heady moan wracking his frame as he screams wordlessly, so close as his fingers push at his cock. So close. So fucking cl-

He feels his whole body light up right as it happens; right as he feels it swell at the base of his cock. Something's wrong, something's more than wrong - he feels this huge swelling of soft skin ballooning right at the base, his hand hitting it and making him jerk upward in utter shock. That singular jerk sends him reeling: he's cumming and cumming, ropes of cum shooting onto his stomach as he moans and sobs and whimpers, not even able to form an expletive as his body quakes. His legs are vibrating from the force of it; everything too bright and too much, burning under his skin as he drools onto the back of his wrist.

He's a mess; he's covered in cum and his mind is all over the place and he's acutely aware something is not normal about this swelling. Because he's pumped enough cum that he should feel spent, but he's still so dialed up that he doesn't understand. It doesn't feel like relief. It should feel like relief, but the desire is still so strong it burns him.

"Oh my god" he moans, reaching down to touch his thigh as he eyes the swelling through heavy lashes. It's red and angry and fat, scary looking. Swollen. Full of blood or something. He doesn't know what to do with it; his mind is still on fucking someone, anyone. On protecting and rutting and fucking and breeding and you, somehow. You're in all of those thoughts, cascading over him. He wants the feeling of still being full of cum to go away; he's not going to cum again. It's not possible. Refractory periods exist for a reason. 

His thighs shake as his hand reaches down to stroke at the swelling; his calloused fingers grasping it as he p-

"JESUS! OH FUCK!" he screams out, a huge load of cum surging out as his cock pulses furiously. It's insane; it shouldn't be fucking happening. No fucking way. But he's still pent up and it's not right and he's not sure why but fuck, fucking hell, he's crying. It's weak and it's stupid and he doesn't really know why, but it all sort of forces its way out. They've done something to him and it's made him almost borderline inhuman. A new body. New wants. New thoughts. None of them belonging to him; to Ben before all of this. 

He doesn't even have the guts to put down the fucking towel - he just breathes in the scent of it as he silently sobs. He's wired like he's fixed to a caffeine drip; he wants to get all of this cum out of him so he can calm down and sleep; get these emotions under control. He squeezes the swelling again: but this time, he only feels his toes curl as it swells a little at his touch. If anything: he just feels more wired. It's not fair at all.

So Ben rolls over to face the wall: like he's done for as long as he can remember. He throws the wet towel across the room; getting it away from him, as far away as he can. Maybe that'll help. It's the smell driving him mad, after all. He squeezes his eyes shut as he lays on his side, feeling the tears hot on his neck. It's itchier than ever; but he doesn't care. The collar is silent as Ben holds one arm under the pillow, pulling it a little closer.

A whimper catches under his breath as his cock pulses, drizzling cum onto the sheets as he feels the swelling beating against him. It'll stop; it has to stop eventually. As the lights in his room shut off, embracing him with darkness: Ben thinks of you. Just you. Carding your hands through his hair. Kissing his throat better. He tries to ignore the way his cock jumps at the image - ignores the way his toes curl, more cum on the sheets as he gives a breathy moan. He just concentrates on the thoughts of the girl he always had eyes for - the girl he never quite had. He'll probably never have you again, now.

He can hear your humming, the way you'd sing under your breath.

_"What a wonderful world."_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is possibly my favourite thing I've ever written
> 
> Three points:  
> 1\. I'm sorry  
> 2\. You're welcome  
> 3\. Why am I crying guys
> 
>  
> 
> [CUM say hi on Tumblr (fuckin got em)](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	6. Revere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not going to go the way you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I was derping around trying to fill out all my PhD paperwork and I've been sleeping for like, an eternity.
> 
> Torturing Ben is pretty much my new favourite hobby  
> Bold of you to assume I'm stopping now  
> (Love you Ben)

"You never...never took anyone. Why? Why did you go through this alone every time?"

Ben's breathing is steady - chest crackling as it rises and falls against your own. You lay on your sides against the tangle of blankets and pillows: his arms wound around your waist. His face lingers inches from yours; so close that you can see the way the whites of his eyes are tinged bloodshot. Crimson lips from his teeth working at them. Dark hair falling over his face in a mess of tangles; tangles you've insisted on trying to work out with your fingertips when you're knotted to him.

He's only lucid after; after he's fucked you enough that the heat in your bones breaks into a simmer. You get it - you're starting to make sense of it more and more as time goes on. When you're not joined together it's agony for you both. You feel as though your blood is burning, even if you try to grit your teeth and let it pass. And he can _smell_ that desperation, smell it as though it's an extension of his own body: feel it inside him as though your flesh is his.

It may as well be, now.

His throat bobs as he scrunches his face in thought: thought that must come from a place of incredible effort. He knows his sense of reality is fleeting. Knows that this is the only reprieve he'll get. Fifteen minutes, twenty at most - and then his knot will loosen, and your sense of calm will ebb away like the tide pulling back. It'll jolt through his bones, even as he desperately tries to sleep. It wakes him up; the keening in his guts. He hasn't slept for longer than a half hour at a time in any proper sense for three days. His sanity is probably at break point. You're wondering when he'll just ask you to punch him over the head, knock him out. Send him into sleep by force. A small mercy.

Ben goes to speak, feebly - but then his eyes roll back. Cum spurts from his knot: thick and heady, making you roll your hips slightly. His muscles tighten: but he's beyond the point of gasping out his pleasure. He's running on fumes: you both are. Energy needs to be conserved for fucking. While you're knotted: he needs to focus on relaxing. On maintaining reality.

"Why did I...did I what?" he offers, bringing up a palm to run over his face. Calloused fingertips pinch at his brow, sliding over the sweat on his forehead. "I'm...I'm sorry. I'm..."

You hush him, concern pulling at your features as you lean in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. He likes that - you can tell. He insists on knotting you while you face him: if you flip onto your stomach he'll grunt and pull you onto your back. Needy. He needs to see your eyes. You can't help the little rush of warmth it gives you to know that.

"Why did you go through ruts alone until now?"

Ben's brow furrows; eyes unfocused as they try to linger on yours.

"Well...you weren't here?"

He says it like it's almost a question you should know the answer to - like you've asked him something obvious. Something so glaringly clear to him that it makes perfect sense in his addled and delirious mind. For a moment, you consider letting the topic go: but there are words unsaid. Things that need to be resolved, sooner or later. This room cannot be the beginning and the end of everything.

"This is why you need to let me get you some food, Ben" you laugh softly, lips brushing his knuckles. "You're getting confused."

Ben makes a whining sound at the back of his throat; nose pushing in to the crook between your neck and your shoulderblade. The skin there tingles as he mouths at it; makes your whole body go limp and your brain turn to powder. Something about that area of your body now is so...so acutely prone to needing to be touched. To his touch, and his touch alone. Almost as though it makes you feel...whole, somehow. Better.

"No" Ben mutters, tongue darting out to lick at his cracked lips "I meant...meant what I said. You're not _listening"._

_Right. Sure._

Silence falls between you as it always does. Eventually, Ben's staggered breaths still into a quiet, light rasp as exhaustion carries him into a fleeting sleep; and about five minutes after that, his knot loosens. It's almost painful: the emptiness as cum and slick leak from you, dribbling onto the soft sheets. You know you've not got long for reprieve, so you stagger to the bathroom and throw open the wooden door.

Your reflection in the mirror makes you pause: pause just long enough that the gland in your neck begins to pulse a little. You're smattered with bruises from Ben's fingertips: looking about as exhausted as you've ever looked. But somehow; this radiant haze lingers through the panes of chrome. You swear you look healthier than you have in a long time. You've spent most of your life surviving on a scavenged diet that varied from week to week - but your cheeks are less hollow now. Bones less jutting. A glow just beneath your skin.

You try to convince yourself it's just the lighting. Try to convince yourself that adopting a strange and subtle femininity couldn't possibly be a part of this.

It only works in part.

The shower is blissful and warm; you keep it quick. It's already creeping on you: licks of fire in the base of your spine. Not yet a burn, but just...just a vibration. A warning. You know you'll retain at least a good chunk of your awareness when the heat comes back around; but Ben won't. He needs food and water while there's still time.

Towel wrapped across your torso, you pull open the fridge door. An actual, proper, working fridge. Cool air blasts out, soothing your skin and pricking your neck with little goosebumps. You don't think about what you're grabbing: anything will do. A bottle of water and what looks like chopped up fruit in a plastic tub is pretty much all you'll risk: everything else requires either time or effort to prepare. You have neither to spare.

Ben's whole body is utterly slack as you unscrew the cap and lay down on the nest: his lashes softly fluttering as he sips air in through his teeth. Ruts are so insane. He's sleeping, but it's almost as if he's unconsciously forcing himself to keep tabs on you now. Ever since you tried to dash for it, it's like he's going through intense separation anxiety; he has to keep tasting the air to check you're still here. His thick curls obscure most of his face: lips parted against the mass of blankets as his hands fist at a pillow.

Water hits the back of your throat and you gasp; god, yes. So good.

"It's ending."

Ben rolls over; muscled torso rippling with effort as he leans back against the pillows. His eyes regard you with something unreadable: an emotion you've seldom seen. A place between hunger and relief. A place where they coexist.

"Your rut?" you ask, pressing the bottle of water to his lips. He sighs, letting you tip it slightly as his throat bobs.

"I don't know" he swallows thickly. "You smell different. Kind of different. Don't know."

You haven't noticed anything. Not anything concrete, anyway. You're feeling a little more solid on your feet, but you just assumed that was the shower.

"Good different?"

Ben picks at a piece of fruit from the plastic container, popping a cube into his mouth. He chews slowly, deliberately - eyes closing after a few short moments. His shaky hands lean in to wrap around your torso; pulling you as close to him as is humanly possible. You huff a laugh at how needy he is; how much he just needs to feel your skin on his own. Large hands peel off your towel, pulling your back flush against his chest.

"Let me see" Ben hums quietly, dipping his lips to the crook of your neck again. God, he just needs to have his mouth there _all the time_ now. It makes your heart pound in your ears, and you're not even quite sure why. Some of the girls you'd met had a bite mark on the tender flesh there: something about claiming them as property or something. It all seems so much less foreign now.

Ben's tongue darts out to lick the surface; a low groan escaping his lips as he tastes it. You feel his hard cock clenching as it tenses just between your legs, dripping precum on your thigh as he sucks on the sensitive flesh. It's so delicate: that rhythmic sucking. As though he's trying to speak through your skin. _You're beautiful. You're safe. I need you._

But he's right - he's always right. That desperate pain in your stomach has eased to a slight throb: slick only trickling down in small remnants as opposed to almighty cramps preceding waves of the stuff.

This is good, right? This is a good thing.

"Holy shit" Ben gasps into your neck "even now, you taste so...I don't know how to even start. So much better than I'd imagined."

You relax into his embrace; hand reaching behind to card through his hair. Fuck, it's so thick - it never used to be this thick and soft. Healthy.

"Imagined? You were imagining this?"

Ben quiets for a second. His throat bobs nervously.

"I know it sounds...fuck. Stupid. Creepy. Or something. But when they brought me here...I...It was dark. Lonely. And then when they gave me the drug...I couldn't bring myself to just...Take some girl. All of them were miserable. They didn't want this. I don't want this. And at that time I was sort of enraptured by you when I was in camp and...I just assumed I'd never see you again. So it helped. When the faceless women I imagined doing this to as I sat here, alone, in the dark smelled of you - it made me less scared. Less scared if they were you."

It's the most articulate sentence you've heard from Ben in all this time. Puzzle pieces click into place; the way he holds you isn't like he's desperate to taste your skin. It's as though you're the last thing anchoring him to the past. The last thing holding him closer to home.

He had meant it when he said he'd asked them to kill you for his own sake. This is _painful_ for him. Because in truth: Ben always was the more selfless of the two of you. He'd rather let you have peace and lose that anchor than have his fantasies manifested and know, acutely, that you would forever be pained by it. Your happiness, your justice - he would suffer for those. He'd die for those.

 

It's...deep. Intense.

"That's not stupid. It's not stupid to need someone."

Ben sniffs in response.

"I suppose not."

And you let him hold you - warmth spreading through you as his teeth massage the soft skin. His arms draw you in close, close, closer still: and you marvel at how _sane_ he seems, suddenly. How present he is. His eyes are glassy, but they're...here. Here with you. Exhausted and pained and haunted but _here._ Your heat is dimming; with it, Ben is finding himself slowly piecing together again. Maybe he'll sleep tonight - maybe this could be it.

"You look so much more like you" you state bluntly, rolling to face Ben on your side. His eyes are regarding you with such soft appraisal; it almost hurts you. Hurts to hold his gaze.

Ben huffs softly.

"Kissing your gland helps. Talking helps. I feel like I've been in a dream: nothing seems stable. But I get these-" Ben's lip trembles, his teeth sinking down into the soft flesh as he gives a little moan "-thoughts. Intrusive thoughts. I'm exhausted, but when I try to calm down I get these rushes of adrenaline. And I've just got to fuck you or milk out my knot or it gets so fucking swollen and it _hurts_."

"It's passing now, though. Right?"

Ben's eyes flutter shut as he swallows thickly.

"Ruts don't work like that. Heats pretty much just dissipate, but ruts...I've got to fuck it out. Or I've got to work to try to combat the intrusive aspects. How many days have we been here for? Can you tell?"

You count back: trying to figure out how long it's been. Jesus, time isn't flowing right. You think three. Three? Three sounds right.

"I...think three days. I'm not sure."

Ben's eyes snap open; lips parting in disbelief.

"Three days? It's only been three days?!" he runs a hand over his face before bringing it down to settle between you: flicking his wrist nervously. "Jesus Christ. It feels like...feels like its been a week. Your heat was shorter than I thought."

Three days is shorter than most of the women you've seen running from this place, granted. A week is normal. And - for you at least - it wasn't horrifyingly strong. You felt mostly capable. That's some small consolation, at least. Maybe this is going to be alright. Maybe you'll have the strength to cut and run sooner than you thought. Living your life having three days a month in discomfort isn't ideal, but it's fine. It's fine.

Ben on the other hand...

"That's good. A good thing. Means I can take care of you until you're out of this and keep you safe. Makes it way less likely I'll end up pregnant. Not that the 'pups' thing isn't appealing."

It's just an offhand comment - something small that you don't even think about. You all know the score: Ben just wants to fuck you full of kids because he's got some crazy hormones running around. Reality is damning - people in heat get pregnant in a snap. Three days of fucking has, hopefully, spared you from being weakened by that. It's good. It's universally considered a positive thing to not be pregnant in this wasteland. Not without appropriate resources and planning anyway.

So an offhand comment is just that: said flippantly. Sort of as a joke. A little bit funny. But the moment you say it - you internally wince. Because poor, stupid, hormonal, fucked-up Ben's eyes just totally glass over. His pupils dilate to the size of dinner plates as he bites down on his lip to stifle a moan that breaks through his teeth with force. You know you've screwed up: he starts shaking like he's fighting an internal battle between rational, recovering Ben and the Ben that has been forcibly pumped full of hormones that give him only one prerogative.

You taste his hormones in the air. He's fully gone; blood burning, desperation and spice.

"Jesus, Ben: I'm so sorry. I didn't even think-"

"No, it's not-" he begins, hand reaching down to stroke at his thick cock. Red and angry and so, so hard. He whimpers, eyes rolling back as his throat bobs. "Please. Help me. _Please."_

His voice breaks in all the wrong places; so you don't even question it. He's begging you to give him what he needs, but he's so exhausted and wired and tired and desperate that he can't even move from his place on the bed. So you straddle him with earnest: sinking down onto him slowly, so slowly that he's almost sobbing from the stimulation. There's enough slick still in you to bring back the remnants of need in your system.

"My mate" he keens, thrusting upward weakly as you move against him. His eyes are desperately seeking out the features on your face; he's not seeing properly, but you just know he's trying to grasp to you. Anchoring. Anchoring to you. "My mate, my love, my beautiful mate."

It's like a song pressed to his lips; and it makes your stomach flip and curl with wonder. You always harboured such a fondness for him: heartbreak nearly crushing you the day they took him. You remember it too often with too much clarity; your sobs to Finn. _'I couldn't save him. I think I love him, Finn, and I couldn't save him.'_

Now? Now, your emotions curl and twist like the rising of a tempest. The bridge of a song only you can hear: something of beauty and pain and wonder. 

He helped you. Tried to save you. You tried to save him, too. Cared for one another. Still care for one another.

"There's nobody...nobody I'd rather be here with. You mean the world to me, Ben."

Ben's head snaps around. His nostrils flare: his hands coming up to pull your face towards his.

"You said that" he whispers; whispers to himself in veneration. As though he can't quite believe it. "Nobody you'd...rather be here with. No other mate you'd rather have. Strong pups."

Your lips push to his: his lashes fluttering shut as his heart hammers in his chest. Your thrusts become erratic, burning, climbing to a peak: your mouth reaches down to mouth at his gland and his whole body just climbs and climbs and builds-

Ben groans as his knot swells; stretching you so much you feel your muscles twitch and contract against him. His cock spurts the first load of cum from him, and it's almost...it's different. He's not in pain. He's not writhing in the pleasure. You can taste his elation on your tongue: his acceptance. The way he's savouring release; his forehead pressed against yours as he whispers reverent phrases in your ear.  "My mate, _my mate,_ my love, oh god _oh god" ._

Your body is alight with a soft pleasure as you move through your orgasm, sharing Ben's oxygen as you tuck his hair out of his eyes.

"Yours. Only yours."

He's trembling; trembling as he holds you tight and twists you both onto your sides. Your heads rest against the pillows, his thighs still wrapped around yours. His knot is almost pulsing with a thrumming pleasure. It's different and the same, all at once. Clammy fingers tug a nearby blanket up around you both; noses touching, bodies sighing in sync. Reveling in the softness of the moment.

"Ben" you whisper. "I didn't say it before. I should've said it long ago. Ben, I think I lo-"

But your words are utterly cut short. Panic rises through your chest as the door to Ben's quarters swings open without warning; the bitter sting of various scents in the doorway. Tangy scents: venomous. Aggressive. Instinctively, you lean into Ben's chest - his heart is thrashing at a mile a minute. A low growl reverberates in his throat as his body shields you: his whole body stiff and deathly aware, pheromones leaking from his skin and dancing on your tongue. Bitter and sour. Like the taste of acid.

"GET THE FUCK BACK!" Ben hisses; nails almost digging through your skin as his strong arms encircle you. "SHE'S MY MATE. _MINE_."

"Spitting at me, Ren? Posturing is the fool's weapon. Speak with your actions."

You know that voice. Know that _smell_. 

It's enough to make your blood _burn_.

"Knotted the girl without _claiming_ her? The sentiments of a boy who has the gall to throw a gift back in my face" Snoke snarls. It's obviously intentional; he's getting close to Ben. Riling him up. Seeing if he'll bite. The Ben you used to know would've just shrugged it off - but now? Now he has territory. Territory to defend. A dance is unfurling here that you're obligated to stay out of; but if Snoke lays even a finger on Ben you'll rip his _fucking_ throat out.

"Her heat was too short. You CANNOT expect me to claim a girl on her first heat in less than a week! TERRITORIAL CLAIMS MAKE IT CLEAR THAT I G-"

And poor, poor Ben: oh god. He can't help it as he chokes on his sentence; chokes on it as he tries to suppress the clenching of his knot. You can feel the way he tries to still his body and force it back, but his cock stiffens and he groans through clenched teeth. Cum spurts into you and you jostle from the shock; drawing the process out by mistake. It's utterly humiliating and ridiculous and only adds to your compounding anger. You had been happy. Content. You had been healing these scars; but now they're ripped open. Ripped open by people you both loathe.

Snoke laughs. Cold as anything. Dripping in malice and darkness.

"Fuck you!" you hiss; squaring your jaw as you twist your face upward. Ben tries to shield you still; but you're resistant. Defiance has always been your weapon. Ben has always been susceptible to anxiety and humiliation - but you're more privy to anger. 

Resistance.

Snoke's cruel smile is still plastered on his twisted face. Beady yellow eyes glare at you from a scarred visage. 

"And she speaks!" he claps his hands together "Look at you; mighty defender of your little Resistance. Tied up on my Commander's knot like a _broodmare_. Subservience becomes you more than wasting a bullet on you ever would have. A pity that I can smell his rut from half a camp away while you've managed to...take an easier path."

There's something in his voice that makes the hairs on your arms prick on end; and it's something that doesn't go unnoticed by Ben, either. Threatening. He's threatening you.

"If you lay a finger on either of us; I'll kill you myself. I'll promise you". It's non-ambiguous, you assume. Your shoulders are squared as you try to clench your jaw and twist towards him. Ben doesn't even try to hide it this time as his eyes squeeze shut and he claps a hand to his mouth, your movements milking cum from him in a way that makes you feel like the broodmare Snoke wants you to be.

But it doesn't matter what Snoke thinks. Doesn't matter what he does.

He can play every card in his hand and you'll still have ten left over.

Snoke makes a sound; a whistling between his teeth as a woman enters the room. Pale skin and blonde hair and merciless gaze that scans to you, scans to Ben - lingering on him as though resolving herself not to put a bullet through him. She's holding a briefcase; Snoke takes it from her hand with a singular jerk.

Ben nearly tackles you to the mattress in his attempts to protect you. He's growling again, now: louder and more chesty. Pinning you to his torso and trying to fold you under him as though he can push you through the mattress and into your nest so far that you'll be safe. He's absolutely terrified of that woman, terrified of Snoke's tone - desperate to get you away. But you can't run, can't hide. You're literally stuck to Ben, and even if you weren't - you're naked and unarmed. Guards in the doorways hover; outnumbering you two to one.

You're fucked.

"Well then" Snoke hisses; brows raising. "Let's begin, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is proof that I have zero capacity for just letting a chapter end on a happy note  
> Also wtf is so hot to me about Ben being protective but also protected but also still hormonally screwed over?  
> Maybe I should see a therapist


	7. Raze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humanity is a choice, not a state of being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas you filthy animals. I couldn't resist. Ooo you're in for it now
> 
> This was the first chapter I thought of when I wanted to write this fic so I hope it feels solid to you. It's minorly kick ass.
> 
> Prewarning: this chapter contains scenes that are fairly disturbing and has a lot of degrading and abusive language by third parties and is just kind of very cruel. Heavy on the misogynistic language and the objectification of women. Rape isn't present but it's mentioned and alluded to (on third-party characters) and I'm aware some of the content in this chapter may be triggering for sexual assault victims. Put your health first, read the tags, I love you!

It's funny, somehow. Not several days ago had you desperately wanted to kill Ben Organa-Solo. Strangle him with his own curtains. Shoot him with his own gun. Leave his body bleeding out in the dirt while you ran.

Survival instinct, see? It's strong. Stronger than anything else. You get people who talk about love and fondness like it's this thing that defies all expectation. Self-sacrifice is, to many, the welcome thought when you think of love. To die in the place of someone you love is seen as noble. A last act of rebellion. But when you're there; when you're staring death in its ugly face and asking yourself what you're willing to do: that sort of self-sacrificial bullshit snaps like a twig.

It _should_ snap. 

Love isn't the beginning and the end of everything. It's not a moment of clarity in a world gone mad: not anymore. Maybe it was, a long time ago. Back before they razed the world to Hell with megaton bombs and chemical warfare. People then could afford to claim they'd die without hesitation: but now you know. You know because you're _there_.

Don't die _for_ love.

Live _to_ love.

Or you'll never change a fucking thing.

* * *

 

The room is wood paneled. Huge. Ceilings crawling up to beams that cut through portraits on the brickwork, sporting angels and devils and sin. It's almost Biblical; even though no one really buys that religion shit anymore. You wonder at the stained glass windows; you've never seen real stained glass before. It's pretty. Faint light from the world outside crystalises in a kaleidoscope of colour: emerald, ochre, ultramarine. 

Who built this place? Was this here before? Are these cut gems of glass forged from the blood of girls who chipped them from the ground, forced to leave behind their lives to build a dying world?

You don't know. You don't want to know.

You wonder if Ben has seen the inside of this room. Of this place. He's a Commander; he's earned a great deal of respect from these people - and so it's only fair to assume this building has felt his footsteps in the walls. Felt the echoes of his boots against it as the ship feels waves thrashing at the hull. Did he resent every step that cracked on the stone flooring? Or did some part of him revel in playing this game? If you close your eyes, take a deep breath - you can feel the velvet of the dress against the tips of your fingers and pretend, briefly, that you're someone else. Someone clad in finery and beauty and fine with pretending; playing dress-up while demons hover in the dark crevasses of the ceiling.

But demons don't live in ceilings. Don't live in oil paint.

They sit on thrones of blood and bone.

They wear wrinkled skins and tattered armor and let you kneel at their feet.

"Revelation 22. I presume your...education...never covered that."

Snoke hovers in the doorway. He's wearing something mocking; finely pressed suit and white undershirt. It doesn't fit quite right; his thinning hair roughly styled to hide the scar that cracks on his skin when his eyes move. The ballroom is big enough that his side is licked by shadow; the room bisected by a dining table, laden with fruits and cheeses and strange meats. You shuffle in your layers - velvet dress. Crimson red. Blood.

You don't answer. The pins in your hair rattle as you turn away; scanning the walls. The first walls you've seen in some time that are maintained; truly, truly maintained. Varnished like a beloved sword.

"I think it's important we-"

"-Where is Ben?"

Snoke smirks. Your defiance amuses him; you're not certain why. Maybe he's used to pretty little girls nipping at his feet.

"Here. Awake. Better for wear now than he was at your last parting. We gave him sleep medication and scent blockers through a saline drip: he's recovered well." Snoke takes several steps foward; boots scuffing on floral carpet that frames the table in the center of the room. "You did quite the number on him, or so I'm told."

Piss off.

"And I suppose that wasn't your fault at all."

The sound of a chair sliding hits your ears; wood on wood as Snoke takes a seat at the head of the table. The chair is grandiose; overdone with carvings of lions and fish. Stupid. It's stupid. People in his walls are begging for water and he's sitting on their bones. He'd raze the world just to be king of the ashes.

Snoke's fingertips tap together, as though in contemplation.

"You think me your enemy. I am not an evil man. You hate what you fail to understand."

Your jaw tenses. The table settings are articulate; forks, spoons.

No knives.

"Enlighten me" you hiss; letting the costumed rings on your knuckles looser as you move to sit to his right. The chair squeaks as you pull it out: the smell of burning wood and fresh apples. The bounty on the table is overflowing: far more food than two people could ever hope to eat.

"The wastes are cruel. Your life had no meaning, no purpose in the cold dark. Rationing food; clinging to survival like snapping dogs. You killed to survive. That was what you did, wasn't it? That was who you were. You killed two of my strongest men - shot them straight through the head. Scouting reports say the shot was so clean that the bullet pierced straight through the brain, killing them instantly. Do you know how many of my soldiers could have made that shot, from a point of disadvantage, with a damaged Remington? Every shot you made risked a backfire. You risked them anyway. My men would have died in the combat."

You scoff.

"You need better soldiers, then."

Snoke laughs to himself. He shuffles at his hip; adrenaline shoots through you as he pulls out a pistol and puts it on his plate. Barrel facing to the center of the table. Safety off. 

Threat. It's a threat. Or a warning.

Same thing, you suppose.

"You don't have to kill to survive. Not anymore. Don't you see that? The women here are happy, you know. The ones that adhere to _our_ rules, _our_ laws: they _thrive_. They have no need to grab a broken hunting rife to stave off attacks. They wear fine clothes and learn to cook and garden and stitch. They're given ample food - they never have to fight for it. Health routinely checked. Some are even medics, midwives; they can live a life free of pain."

"They're living in a dreamworld. You all are. You give them drugs to make them _need_ you and if they don't you let them-"

"-They choose. They all choose. They are all given a chance to live as is intended for them; their submission is nature. It takes time to adjust, but so long as they are willing, they will see us to be here to cherish them. They will want for nothing. We only ask them to fulfill their role in this world: to bear children that will one day be the future of our world."

"And if they refuse? If I refuse?"

Snoke chews the inside of his cheek in thought; eyeing his gun with a feigned curiosity that punctuates your words. He reaches into his coat pocket; pulling out a syringe and palming it. Identical in its disposition to the needle that they used to pierce Ben's neck yesterday; pierce it as his body fell limp against the bedsheets. Limp and cold and eased of all consciousness. They love their needles here. Love stabbing them where they aren't wanted. You don't know what's in this one - at this point, it's probably some sort of poison that'll turn your blood to cement.

Maybe he should just get this over with.

"Refusal is a humorous term, isn't it? Meaningless, really."

Snoke leans in, placing the needle down next to the gun with a clank. It's like chess: he's lining up the pieces. The board is coming into view; Snoke, the King. Surrounded at all angles. Moving slowly a square at a time. He could be taken - could be. But his blonde defender - Phasma, as you now know her - she's the Queen. She can move across the board in a stroke. Knocking pieces from the board to line up his play. Ben's the Knight; erratic in his movements. Taking and being taken. Jumping over enemies. Blocking up the board.

Your plate is empty. White light shines from the ceramic surface.

Pawn.

"You know how this will go" Snoke sneers. "I won't kill either of you. But there are no limits to what sorts of fates can befall fertile, genetically clear breeding stock. He hasn't claimed you, which leaves you both as unclaimed merchandise, alone and without defense. You could both find yourselves in very, very precarious situations. You have a choice. If you try to cross me - I will _break_ you first. And watch him _crumble_ in the process."

The door to the room creaks open: leaving your skin crawling as you move your hands to your lap. Consciously, you edge away from the table - edging away from Snoke's plate, filled with venomous ways to find yourself in hot water.

Snoke claps his hands together; staring at the figure in the doorway.

"Commander!" he barks. "Come! Sit! We were about to begin!"

Ben's soft gaze drifts to Snoke; then slowly, deliberately, holds on yours. He looks just...devastatingly beautiful. You'd think seeing someone so starkly built would bring the word 'handsome' to mind; and it does. It does. But truly, Ben looks like something from a painting. Something from a dream. Clean-shaven, sharp jawed: thick, soft hair curling across his cheekbones. He's wearing a three-piece suit, tie just loose enough to give a hint of his detest for it.

But what really draws you, pulls you: this isn't the same Ben you've spent the last few days fucking in desperation. Not the same Ben who begged, pleaded for you to end his burning need. This Ben is strong; subtle. His pheromones don't reek of need - they reek of power.

But somehow, the way his honeyed eyes follow the curve of your waist, the velvet at your thighs - it melts you. Melts your core.

Not desire.

Appraisal. Reverence. Respect.

Love.

You move to stand; Snoke's hand clamps your wrist, tugging you back to sitting. His grip is cold and harsh; nails digging into your skin and chilling you to the core. Ben's scent shifts: his approach to the table becomes purposeful. Angry. Resolved.

But Ben doesn't move to garrote Snoke. Rather, he pulls up a seat opposite you: gracefully moving into place. His stomach muscles roll in his white shirt as he pushes his chair in - your mind drifts. Hands in his hair, cum on your thighs. Shudders lick at your spine with the intensity of it all. Playing pretend. All three of you in finery and velvet and guilded halls, pretending you aren't throwing knives at throats.

Snoke takes a bunch of grapes, shovelling them onto his plate with some cuts of meat. He motions for you to do the same.

Neither you nor Ben move. The atmosphere shifts; Snoke puts a grape between his teeth and chews through sinewy cheeks.

"Eat" he commands. "You've earned it."

Ben is hesitant; but he does as he's told. He takes a selection of items and scoops them onto his plate with a fork, chewing slowly on a cube of cheese. His eyes linger on yours, quietly reassuring the licks of anxiety rolling from you. _We're going to get through this. I know we can. Breathe._

You don't raise your hands from your lap. Don't so much as shift.

Snoke doesn't like that. He pauses mid chew: shooting a glare that goes straight through you.

"You'll never make it through a labour if you refuse to eat" he shrugs.

Ben goes white. Draining to a paler shade than you've ever seen him; swallowing thickly as he stares straight ahead.

"Stress is a leading cause of miscarriage" you murmur, twiddling your fingers in your lap. "So I doubt it'd matter."

Snoke huffs on a laugh; almost as though he's amused by your protests. Amused by the way you're intentionally toying with him. Pushing him. Waiting for him to snap. Ben, on the other hand; his head is down. He's afraid - afraid or calculating. Ben's always three steps ahead, and silence on his part is usually him simulating the next move.

"Really?" Snoke asks, shaking his head as he snaps his gaze to you. "I haven't found that. And I've had experience on the topic" his eyes slowly drift to Ben; pointing at him with a silver fork. Pieces are moving on the board: Snoke is recognizing Ben's silence as dangerous.

Snoke's plate moves slightly. The gun rattles. It's loaded. Safety is off.

Ben wouldn't know that. He'd assume it was a bluff, you think. He's smart - but he's never shot a gun. His hands shake. He doesn't know what to look for to determine that.

Loaded, readied gun and a needle full of unknown fluid. Two weapons of unknown ability to cause a fatality; but there are two of you. Ben could jump him - Ben is built like a tank and knows how to kill a man in hand-to-hand. But if you take any longer than a few seconds; the guards hovering by the door will know what you've done. Kill you on the spot. The needle could be fatal, but something tells you it isn't.

The gun, then. Shoot him in the head. Two guards at this range; two slow, burly guards. Easy. Out the door, through the back way, across camp, over the wall.

There's a chance it's full of blanks. It's not a high chance - you know Snoke has seen Ben in combat. Know Snoke has seen you mow down his men. A gun full of blanks would do nothing to stop you both; and he knows you'd die for that shot. If Snoke dies; there's nothing to stop those guards killing you.

Two-to-one. Still not good odds.

Better than nothing.

"No doubt that information comes from you" Snoke mutters; glaring at Ben with beady eyes. "You're my Commander. Presuming you're anything else because you were in another life is weak of you. You're a killer, Ren. Not a healer. Not anymore."

It's gross. It's horrible. Saying that to Ben - turning his achievements to dirt - it's cold and cruel and terrible. Ben wasn't just some souped up healer; he was a doctor. A medic. He learned and worked and tried so hard to be who he is. He knew everything - knows, you correct yourself - knows everything he can know about how to save a broken body. Sure, he's young: but this wasteland works by trial and error. Kids grow up fast. At 13 you were hunting out at the Depot and on Slacked Plain. Ben in his mid-twenties saved more lives than you can count.

He misses it, you're sure.

Ben's lip trembles, but he catches your gaze. Eyes on the gun. He knows the score. Agree, agree. Buy time.

"Yes, Supreme Leader. My mate speaks out of turn. She needs to learn to mind her tongue."

Snoke huffs a laugh. It's bitter.

"Not your mate yet, Ren. Or have you forgotten? Until you claim her she-"

The plate clatters; clatters to the floor as you snatch at the gun so fast that Snoke can hardly even respond. You breathe; the scene changes. Snoke's eyes widen as he clambers to his feet; lips parted in sudden shock as Ben moves to the side to clear your shot. This could be it. For both of you. For one of you. 

For all of this misery.

You raise the barrel to line up with his forehead. His pheromones are acidic; he's enraged. Sweating. Fearful. Despondent. 

But he feels he's won, somehow. You just know it.

"You pull that trigger" Snoke hisses through spitting teeth "and my men are under express orders to make your life very long and very p-"

He sees it in your eyes.

Ben sees it too.

"Do it", Ben nods. Wide eyes take you in. Appraise you as a goddess of wrath, seeking justice.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Click.

* * *

 

White noise. That's all you hear - white noise.

Something in your throat is pulsing; your heart, perhaps. Your head is pounding: a heavy, harsh object pinning you to the wall. Engulfing you. It feels like home.

The angels on the ceiling sway like water: demons in the shadow with faces round and soft. Your name; someone's...calling your name? Screaming. There's screaming.

But then the water calms; the noise subsides. The world comes back into view.

You wish it hadn't.

Snoke's grin is so wide it may as well be contagious. He's standing tall and strong and very much alive. The pistol smokes on the floor - you had aimed it true and shot with confidence. It should've killed him. Should've...

Fuck. Blanks. He filled it with blanks. A dead bluff.

Ben is grabbing your cheeks and he's holding you; screaming your name. Grabbing on to you as though he feels you'll dissipate through the walls. And that's how you know in that instant; Ben Organa-Solo isn't Commander of anything. If he has too chose between holding you and seeking revenge: he'll come back to you. Every time. Every fucking time.

It's stupid. He's stupid. It's over now anyway.

Someone grabs his arms and Ben thrashes and thrashes, twisting and pulling and screaming. Screaming your name, over and over. But the men who grab him are twice as strong and there are twice as many of them: they reek of Alpha pheromones as they pin Ben by his arms, his dark hair wild and eyes frantic. They force him into his seat; clapping restraints on his wrists and ankles. Muscles in his neck pop and his face flushes dark red as his vocal chords shred. You don't even move: you just stay pinned to the wall. Pinned by fear that eclipses your sense and your control.

"You _stupid_ bitch" Snoke laughs; his scarred, withered face twisting into the mockery of a smile. His boots echo on the floors, punctuating Ben's screaming as he makes his way to you. "You think I'd prize my 'legacy' over my life? Legacies live and die, whore. I build them overnight. You believed my story, the story of my claim that this is all for a purpose?" Snoke's withered hand snaps around your throat; making you gasp as he squeezes at your pulse point. Your gland burns; Ben's distress is so acute that it drowns all sense in your mind.

"I'll tell you why I do it, since you'll never have the chance to tell a soul" he spits; playing with the needle in his spare hand. He leans in as you struggle, your hands weakly gripping at his hold on you. His breath smells like smoke and fruit and acid. "I take the strong and brave and turn them into _nothing_. With a sweep of my hand; men and women fight and die. Turn to hormonal, rabid animals, engaging in depravity to keep them under my control. They're all miserable. They'll never run from me. I've ruined them. Thousands of people. Believing their enemies are an army or a drug or a Process or a thing. But it isn't" he swallows "I'm the shadow in the wastes. The radiation that melts your skin. And I do it because _it makes me happy_."

The needle pierces your skin just below your gland and you don't even wince. You don't even fucking wince. The liquid is cool as it pools beneath; sliding into your body beginning whatever fucked up thing it's used for.

Snoke's grip on your neck loosens and you splutter; staggering forward as you stumble to grip the back of your seat. Ben is frantic - he rasps your name through clenched teeth.

"Look at me! Please, please!" he begs and begs, his hair all over his face. Suit jacket rumpled; tie now hanging limply from his neck.

"What did you give to me?" you ask coldly, licking your lips as you stare into the nothing. Your voice betrays nothing: no emotion. No pain. No fear. Blankness. Empty, shriveled defeat.

Snoke returns to the table, pulling out his seat as though plates haven't been smashed to shit and Ben isn't pretty much wildly throwing himself at the gaunt monster. He gestures for you to sit with a hand; you comply. You don't look up. You just fall into your seat, sitting firmly as your red skirts billow out. It's numb. You're numb.

"Decisions, decisions." Snoke picks at a shard of the plate; examining it with beady eyes. "My suit's stained. You have no idea how long it took me to find such a suit. Patching it will be tricky. You've both become rather tiresome. I've half a mind to just throw you both in The Pit and let it be done." He sighs, straightening in his suit. "But I think not. Waste of genetics, don't you agree? I could just chain you both up and do this artificially; but somehow it interrupts the process. Something about mated pairs physically being involved improves the likelihood of successful insemination."

He's not even talking about you like you're human beings. You're not to him - that's the kicker. He's not even talking to you anymore. He's prattling off ideas. Prattling on.

"Opinions from the floor?" he asks, grinning menacingly at Ben.

Ben is in no position to have a conversation. He hisses and spits profanities like a cat, lunging forward at Snoke as he strains against his restraints. He really does look feral; he's lividly angry and fearful. It's everywhere in the air; sitting on the roof of your mouth. Pheromones leaking into your skin, curling at the base of your spine.

Something's off. You can't pinpoint it. He's probably given you a drug that'll make you start breaking down into psychosis or something; and you're hyper aware of that. But there's this prickling warmth sliding through your bones. You shudder.

"Blockers will work well. He needs a break. You might struggle, though. I hear they can't knot on strong enough blockers; so it won't make you feel much better to try. But you will - hormones will drag you back to him. You're both damaged property. Too valuable to kill, too...tainted to release back into the general population. So I'll let you both work this out the old fashioned way."

Ben stops thrashing about at that; stops thrashing as his face twists. Concern dances at your palette; he can't smell or taste a single thing coming from you. He's panicked: he's your mate, something's wrong, he's distressed. Your arms prick with goosebumps; heart rate picking up a little.

Heat. He's given you a second dose. Right after the first one.

He's insane.

"Three day heats just aren't productive enough. An extra dose, though? Well, that'll do the trick. It always does. We tend to reserve double doses for special occasions; special cases. Causes long heats, painful heats. More reoccurring and random. The side effects can be a little...difficult to manage. You'll cope. Once you conceive it'll get easier."

There's no stomach-twisting cramping this time; none of that. It's nothing like that. It's utterly without warning; five seconds of building tension and you're just...moaning and gasping as your muscles flutter. Cumming around nothing - twisting inside as you feel slick dripping through your dress. You're clenching and it _hurts_ ; hurts like a hot poker shoved straight through you as thick, clear liquid drips down your legs. You gasp and double over at the table, gripping the woodwork.

"I'll kill you" Ben hisses at Snoke "you're not a man at all. I'll FUCKING KILL YOU!"

Snoke doesn't even seem like he's convinced; he bites into an apple and the crunch fills the air. You suck back saliva as everything whirls; Ben's scent sitting on the roof of your mouth and refusing to leave. Curling inside you and coercing a constant pool of slick from between your legs.

 _"Ben"_ you breathe; trying to focus. Reality lurches forward. Your thoughts become distorted. "Hurts. Please. Ben. _Please_. Can't think."

Your lips part. Groaning, you grasp at the space between your legs through your dress. It's soaked and dripping with pheromones in the most embarrassing way; ruining the chair, staining the material. You ache as your walls flutter and clench like they're seeking out relief - when it doesn't come, slick just drips freely. It's nothing like that original heat - waves of pain and need that drew you in. You're paralyzed to do much but beg for relief; reality doesn't function. You don't feel human; you feel like a bundle of nerves, searching in the dark.

Somehow, at some point: Ben's hands are under you. Supporting you. You don't know when it happened. But there's cool air; night air. Someone's snapping orders at him. Ben's scent obscures reality and you squirm and whimper as you nuzzle at the place the fabric of his collar meets his gland. Lips in your hair. _I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry._ And _they're taking us back to our nest now and it'll get better, I'll make it better._

_Capable mate. Strong mate. Provide. Help me. Ben, I can't think. Where am I? It's too hot. Hot, Ben. Mate. Please. Knot me, Ben. Please oh please. I need you to knot me. Ben, I'm scared and I don't know what to do. Knot me and fuck me and give me your pups, Ben. Fill me up so I don't feel empty anymore._

"Shhhh, sweetheart. It'll be fine. You're going to be fine. Let me...I need to help you out of that dress" Ben says quietly, calloused fingers working at the zipper. You feel it slide down; exposing hot skin to the cool air. Ben smells so fucking good; smells like home and warmth and sex. You want to coat yourself in it: roll in it and take it with you. Shivers roll through your skin as he pulls the dress over your head and tosses it to the floor.

You grasp to stop the hurting. You're not even sure what there is to grab. The lower half of your body is just...just slick. You can smell your own pheromones; whiny, needy bitch. Needs to be fucked. You'll die if you aren't. Literally. You're losing too much slick. Energy is running low. Only thing that'll stop it is a thick, fat knot. Cum; Ben's knot. So tight and thick and it keeps it all in. Keeps in the cum.

So this is what it felt like when Ben was in a rut. It's fucking insane.

Ben's eyes are so soft as he holds you in his gaze; you can't quite focus on him but he's there, he's everywhere. Brown eyes and smattered freckles dance like stars. He sets you down among soft things and yes, yes. They smell of him. Of rut and fucking and Ben. Perfect for pups. Your little angels. You just writhe in them as you cum; scenting them with slick and pheromones.

"Jesus" Ben rasps, breath catching on a small sob "These blockers are insane. I feel so wrong. I can't even smell you and it's fucking _breaking_ my heart."

"What do we do? Ben, please. Claim me. Knot me. Fuck me. Your fucking knot is so...so good Ben. So good to me."

Ben moans; but it's caught between desire and distress. He can't knot. He can cum but it won't...you need him to knot you. You don't know how you know. Cum won't be enough. It won't be enough to stop this.

"You're not an object. I can't...can't just...won't do that. If I'd do it I'd want...oh god, this is insane...I'd want us to claim eachother. As real mates. It'd sync our cycles up, make me able to knot you; but it's not just...it's forever. And you're just...shit, my sweet, sweet girl. This shouldn't be something we should have to do like this. It'll change...everything."

Clarity hits you fast and hard. Your brain's giving you one for the road, it seems. Focus blurs; Ben's barely clothed body flush on yours as you squirm against him, his form eclipsing yours as you lay back on the blankets. Rippling muscle and full, pouted lips.

"I love you, Ben. T-tried to say" you shudder, moaning into his shoulder "us against the world."

Ben starts sobbing. He doesn't even try to hide the raw tears as he whispers reverent things in your ear. His pants come down and you drip slick at the sight of his thick cock. He smells of love and want and infinite compassion, selfless and honest as he sinks down into you with no effort.

"Oh god. Oh fucking-" he gasps "-if I cum too soon this won't work. This might not - god, you're so fucking wet and tight and - might not work because I'm not in rut. Don't know. God oh god oh - n-nobody I know has ever claimed both ways before. Too much pressure" he grimaces, squeezing starkly lashed eyes shut "want my knot to pop up so bad. Fucking blockers."

Babbling about Ben's knot tips you over the edge; you keen as you clench around his cock. He makes a strangled noise; fisting the sheets of the nest as he holds on for dear life. Aftershocks make you whimper as Ben practically sobs from need, pheromones nearly kicking though the blocker barrier.

"Holy shit!" he whimpers. "Be quick. Bite my gland." His eyes roll back "Quick, fuck, quick. Hard. As hard as you - oh Christ, I'm -"

Your teeth find the skin of his gland as though on instinct; your mouth watering uncontrollably at the taste of him. Fuck! So good! You bite down hard - blood filling your mouth as you taste so many flavours that you're not even sure where to start. For a second, you worry it hasn't worked: but Ben's teeth find purchase on your neck, sloppily. White canine teeth piece your skin, and your body just...floats. White hot light sears through you; pain and pleasure and alien sensation rocking you. It's peaceful: whole. 

Worlds careen. You see starlight. _Bloody knuckles. You're singing as you hang out washing. July. Bluebells. Alex, are you awake? I think I love him, Finn. She's so beautiful. Dandelion puffs stuck in his hair. Sutures rip. Love is the hard part. Us against the world. Believe it's better. Be quick, bite my gland. I love you. I love you. I love you._

The flat of your tongue is running against his gland already, sealing it. Marking it. You can feel his thoughts now; not quite sentences, but flittering bits of knowledge while you're close. Processed girls getting claimed by Alpha guys is law. But Alphas being claimed in return? Never happens. Odds of you being paired with someone you love so early are so low. It's a committment. Alphas who are claimed can't ever claim again. It's lifelong. Your heats and ruts will be intrinsically linked. Your scents shift to mirror to outsiders. You share in pleasure and pain.

Invasive. Beautiful. Honest. It's so honest.

"I love you so much. My mate. I can feel...everything. Everything. Ben, oh my god. You love me so much. How is that...we're..." you breathe, leaning back to push your forehead to his.

Ben's eyes are raw. He's awed. He's been so alone. You're so perfect; he's only ever wanted this. His rut's kicking in; you can feel it. He's nervous, but he's also...he wants it. The blocker is useless now; it's burning out of his system. It's seeking to block Unmated omega scents; but now it's rendered useless.

Ben's body slackens. Your scent suddenly floods him: his mate is in heat, she's in a desperate and difficult heat and his brain kicks into gear. Need to mate. Knock her up. Knot her.

His cock hardens; pupils blowing out as he adjusts to it. His rut is seeping your heat from you: working in a tandem, working together.

"There we go" Ben groans, thrusting into you softly. "Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry you're hurting like this. My beautiful girl. Beautiful mate. I love you more than I ever thought...god, I never thought this could feel so _fucking_ incredible. This is the most intense - shit, you're going to cum again. I can feel it in my own skin. Oh my god. This is _bliss_."

And you do - you do cum again. It's a trembling, catastrophic thing; you both feel every moment of it. Ben's heart rate picks up, your moans echoing one another. For a moment, Ben's body gets confused; his knot swells slightly, convinced he's just cum - and it makes your heat just that much more bearable.

"Please" you gasp "god, I can feel your knot and it's...I never want to stop. Ben, I never want to stop feeling like this."

Ben's thrusts grow erratic; _good_ , he thinks. He loves the feeling of your slick all over him; you smell like him and it's driving him insane.

"We never have to" Ben moans "oh god when I cum - when I cum you'll feel it every time I pulse. And you'll - Christ - it's so hot just thinking about it. Our smell is so fucking good, sweetheart."

You moan; slick dripping down your thighs. Yes. He's so close. Oh please, let him cum. He's so desperate.

"My mate. Alpha. Please! Please! Fill me with pups, Ben!"

Everything whirls. You feel what that does to him; it's so intense. Like breaking surface tension. It's almost a seperate need from knotting; to hear you _want_ to carry his kids is a biological urge that switches off every other light in his brain until there's only that. Images flash like lightning: all of them him picturing your scent, carrying the product of a mating that shows how deeply you crave one another. The perfect scent. Exquisite and complex.

"Oh Christ, oh my god, sweetheart, oh _holy shit."_ Ben babbles and keens as his knot balloons: cum shooting ribbons into your cunt as you practically quake with pleasure. You can feel his cum hitting you; with it, you can feel his utter bliss as his knot pumps and vibrates. It makes your body quake: makes you sob and clench around him, the heat inside you so, so implicitly satisfied. Ben feels it. He registers just how much his knot is easing your pain. It's fucking hot: he feels like such a good provider.

"You are" you quake "fuck, you're so good!"

His knot clenches and your eyes roll back; both of you in tandem shuddering as you clench right as he pumps another load of cum. It's pretty much the dream; both of your bodies are wired to want to do exactly this. It's the most satisfying sensation.

You scoot onto your sides; tucked up in the blankets of the nest. It's raining outside; droplets on the window.

For the first time: you're interested. You jostle your hips; testing. Seeing what it feels like.

 _Fuck_. Adrenaline and wired electricity shoot through Ben's veins, cum trickling into you and making you sharply gasp in pleasure. Milking his knot feels so insanely good for him. It feels so full that it'll burst; milking it out just fills him with so much ecstasy.

He huffs a laugh, trying to catch his breath.

"Not always" he pants, smiling "masturbating doesn't...mmmhnnn...do that right."

"Guess I'll find out" you sigh, contented.

Ben's arms snake around your waist to pull you close. He loves you so much; and you love him, too. You just can't get enough of his touch, of his smell. He's the same: he's desperate for it right now. Physical need is dimming, replaced by spiritual need for closeness.

"If I cum every time you cum and visa versa; we're so screwed" you laugh, snuggling into his chest. "Snoke's gonna have a field day".

"I've heard sleeping in a joint heat and rut when you're mated is just...fucking beautiful" Ben whispers reverently. "The world can wait. Hell, nothing beyond this room tonight matters to me. Just you and I. That's it." He ruffles his nose into your hair; tasting your scent. Beautiful. So so beautiful. "I love you, sweetheart. My sweet mate. I love you so, so much."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite chapter so far  
> Started out cruel and mean and gross  
> Ended just...yeah. Feel like I'm flying.  
> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	8. Hitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't let go.

Sticky. It's _sticky_. 

Leather is pasted to your palms as you sit up on the medical gurney; eyeing the crumbling little room they've sent you to. The wallpaper is peeling from its foundation - little blue stars - and the room is fairly barren, save for the odd run-down medical machine and a dodgy looking vending machine filled with old, out-of-date soda.

Your fingertips reach up to brush your cheek, earning a light hiss from your lips. It stings like nothing else.

Voices in the corridor; then, the door creaks open.

Ben Solo. He's all long legs and pointy features: sharp and thin and jutting. Wisps of black hair, short enough that it leaves room for two red-tipped ears to poke out. He's always been self-conscious about it, you notice. When you were kids, he'd try to tuck them back. It never _quite_ worked. 

His eyes flicker down to a chart in his palm, knuckles clicking as he flips through pages, boots squeaking on the linolium.

And then, he looks up. And just...stops.

"Hey Ben" you wave sheepishly; licking your dry lips "back again."

Ben's face turns sheet white, constellations of freckles stark on his skin. He's almost...pretty, somehow. Mid-twenties, but with a boyish charm. 

And you're pretty sure he _hates_ you.

"I -" he huffs, throwing a look over his shoulder as his throat bobs "-I'll go get Kaydel. She's better with stit-"

"She's otherwise occupied. Maz just walked in with another throat infection, so she told me to just...wait in here for you."

The look he shoots you is almost pained; a flash of panic in the corner of his eyes. As though he genuinely resents being close to you so passionately he's tempted to run. It's ridiculous, really - you used to be friends. You grew up together. His dad taught you to shoot. Now? Now he won't even look you in the eyes. Won't even be in a room with you without fumbling and backing out; putting in some distance.

You're not sure where it all went wrong. You wish you could say.

Ben's jaw works at the inside of his lip; steady hand setting the charts down next to you on the seat. His white shirt tenses at his neck as he leans in to examine your wound; his hand hesitating just below your chin. Like touching you will burn him from the inside - something in his bones that makes him fear the sharpness on your skin. You turn your head to give him access, pushing your jaw into the cup of his hand, earning a huff of surprise from his lips.

They part slowly as he thumbs the underside of your jaw, testing the skin. It tingles at his touch: the cut on your cheek stinging in the bitter wake of skin parting lightly. You have a habit of taking weird and unexpected injuries - today, it was falling from a tree to get a better view of the outcrop. A lone branch tried to tackle you by surprise.

"Does-" he swallows, and you watch as his throat crackles with a dryness "- does that hurt?"

You shrug. 

"Tingles. Like little needles."

Ben reaches over to grab a little wet flannel from the counter; pouring a transparent liquid on the surface and folding it softly. Turning back to you, a lock of hair falls over his forehead; something in you tugs on your heart, desperate to tuck it back behind his ear.

No. That's not helpful. Childish crushes don't do a damn thing nowadays.

Steady hands softly push the cloth to your wound: forcing you to hiss in response and clamp down just a little harder on the edge of your seat. It's a marvel just how _gentle_ he is; how softly his thin fingers move across your skin. Something of a subtle caution as he dabs the wound, eyes anywhere but your own. Honey-brown and distant, lost in thought.

"You should be more careful", he mumbles quietly.

Your hands tense.

"Sorry. I wasn't aware I was such a drain on your time and resources, Ben."

At the way you spit his name, his fingertips freeze. His pupils expand _just_ so; a frustrated sound in his throat.

"That..." he grits his teeth "...that's not what I meant."

His breath on your neck smells of peppermint, your heart speeding up as you try to concentrate.

"Then what? Think I can't take care of myself?"

His eyes drop, cheeks dusting a soft rose.

"I'm sorry" he huffs. "Please, just forget I-"

The door slowly slides open; Ben's head whipping around. Kaydel stands in the doorframe - she's holding a bottle of pills, blonde hair pulled back.

"Mind helping me out, Ben? Need someone with more experience to diagnose Maz's lab results." She shoots a smile to you, giving a little wave. "I'll take over here."

Your head is spinning; anger and confusion in equal measure as Ben gathers up his chart and throws the cloth down next to you. His whole body is pulled taut as he grits his teeth, tearing through the room at speed and pushing by Kaydel fast enough to make her sway on her feet. In barely the blink of an eye: Ben Organa-Solo eclipses the doorframe.

He doesn't look back even once.

* * *

Waking up to you dry-retching over his toilet bowl probably isn't Ben's favourite way to round off such a beautiful sleep: but if it's thrown him off piste, it doesn't show.

His hands are supple and soft as they pry the little locks of your hair back, curling them to your nape as you grip the sides for dear life. You'd woken to a feeling like your stomach was looping in on itself - ducking under Ben's huge form on shaky legs to careen into the bathroom. He'd followed nearly immediately, stroking your back with tender, calloused hands and a fretting sensation that pricks at the mark of your neck.

"It's the drug" Ben coos, dabbing at your lips with tissue "that's why Phasma won't give double doses. I've seen it before - you'll need to get it all up, sweetheart."

Of course, there are things unsaid on his tongue that are hinted at in the little glimmers of emotion that stir between you. Some sort of quiet, fleeting hope rattles just under the pale skin on Ben's pulse: words he won't say out loud for fear they'll be rejected in the cold reality of day. And even though the thought douses you in a fear that turns you to ice - you'll admit to yourself that there's some sort of...some sort of keening in you, too. Some urge that goes beyond the simple biology.

Maybe.

But even then - maths wouldn't add up. Four weeks minimum. You've been here a week.

You know it's four weeks minimum, because Ben's doing the sums in his head. He's trying to convince himself that it's possible it isn't the drug, that it's possible you're some...some medical marvel. Trying to remember if he's ever known a Processed, mated girl who got morning-

"Super helpful" you groan sarcastically, staring at porcelain as your stomach turns.

Ben frets, anxiety and embarrassment in equal measure as he stumbles to his feet. He's shaky on his legs as he leaves you - naked and hunched - to tear through the clothes that remain in his drawers. Your attention seems to transfix almost instantly on a keening loneliness, rising up in your gut like wildfire. You're not sure whether it's you or him: or both, maybe. It's all so different from anything you're familiar with, and it's too difficult for your head to wrap around.

Wiping your mouth and washing it out in the sink, you pad through the doorway and back into the room.

A cage or a safe harbour, you still can't decide.

Ben's face is flushed as he pulls his tunic over his head with a disgruntled tug, pushing it flat over his undershirt as he reaches for his belt. The fabric lightly rubs at the healing gland on his neck, making pleasure bloom in the pit of your stomach. His padded pants are already hiding everything from view - and a part of you despairs, despairs for the heat that simmers just under the surface of your skin. Sated for now by a night of endless knotting, but still...there, somehow. Waiting.

"Ben..." your brow creases "...what are you..."

He clicks his belt shut before turning his gaze to you: hazel eyes dark. Intense.

You forgot, over all these days, how absolutely impressive he is in that armour. How he cuts the room like nothing else. At 6ft 3 of pure muscle, clad head-to-toe in black padded armour: his pale skin stands stark in the contrast. Thick, red lips. Strong hair, wavy and pitch-black, flicking to skim his shoulder blades. Dark lashes. The thin trace of a scar and a healing bruise; relics you've given him in the transition between this life and the one before.

Somewhere in the back of your head, a little voice preens.

 _Strong mate,_ it glows. _Commander. Alpha._

"You were right".

"About?"

Ben runs a hand through his hair; embarrassment and pride in equal measure. He feels your eyes on him, appraising him.

He likes it.

"We've only got us. And now I've--now we've got a reason to fight that goes beyond just..." he huffs a breath, taking several steps towards you. His lips part lightly; fingertips on your wrist. Brushing at the pulse point on your wrist"...beyond just surviving. Waiting for something to happen. Beyond just hoping for it all to be the way it was."

Your heart is up in your throat as you reach up, up to brush your fingers along his jaw. He hums in appreciation, nuzzling into the curve of your palm as his lashes flutter.

"You want to leave."

Ben nods, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"We can't stay. If they smell me, they'll smell that we're mated - smell that I let you claim me. They'll strip us both of everything. They'll take you away and I...I just can't...I can't lose you."

Days ago you craved to leave like nothing else - but nerves prick at your spine. Anticipation. Fear. So many attempts to reclaim your space have been met with failure; swift, utter failure in the most brutal way. If this fails - if you struggle of flag in any way - you're sure you won't have the resolve to get back up again. The adrenaline to push you to fight.

"Then we go", you say. "We run."

You waste no time in rummaging through the room to grab your things, wherever they've been scattered. Your underwear is utterly useless, so you have to resort to borrowing an old pair of boxers from Ben. But the rest of your armour is still in the same condition you left it in, all the way down to the heavy-soled boots with frayed laces. Wearing armoured clothes after so long without them just...feels odd, somehow. A part of you basks in the moment: tucking in the underside of your shirt and feeling, acutely, that you're still you. It's a little tighter on the chest, a little more bunched at the hip: but that doesn't matter. It _doesn't_.

Ben fills a backpack up with various supplies: a container of fruit. Can of beans. Several water bottles. Medical gauze. Aspirin. Spare underwear. Socks. A few brown plastic containers filled with pills.

"Painkillers?" you ask, gesturing with your forehead as Ben adds a fourth plastic container into one of the pockets.

Something fizzes through your bond - a pricking in your blood, making the world vibrate a little too fast. 

Ben runs a hand through his hair.

"Antidepressants."

You swallow.

"Oh."

Ben's cheeks flush scarlet as he shrugs; reaching deep into the pack and pulling something out. The barrel shines in the dim light: safety on. A pistol he's hidden for safe-keeping. You're sure he probably doesn't really know how to shoot the damn thing - and to hammer that home, he hands it to you. Trusting you implicitly with the only weapon you both have.

Your fingers slide up the barrel, appraising it as you eject the magazine. You load the bullets - six total - and push it back in. 

It's not enough to properly defend yourself: not even close. But it'll do in a desperate situation.

He hands you the backpack; helping you slip it over your shoulders with tender touches along your arms. There's something so gentle about the way he touches you, you realise. Like you're forged from paper and twigs and dragonfly wings. Appraising you with a helpless wonder.

"If all else fails...I want you to do something for me."

Ben's voice is gruff and deep: it's marred with something he's been chewing over. 

"What might that be?" you hum.

"If you get a clear way ahead and I flag-"

"-No."

He groans: biting his lip in frustration. Sharp teeth sink into his plush lip and your mind swirls; heat blooming in your stomach. It's fucking stupid and a really bad time to be thinking about that, but _christ_. The way his chest puffs when he groans just makes your mind a muddy haze of want and heat and _please, Ben._

"Sweetheart, _please_. We have to talk about-"

"And I told you, Ben: _No. It's not happening."_

Anger blooms in your throat: red hot, desperate and keening. NO. You're not losing him - not now, not ever again. Not after all of this. If he goes, you go. There's nothing else to it.

Ben feels that reverberating through you; and it almost brings him to his knees. His forehead dips to press to yours, his tongue slipping between your lips to coax you, taste you. Just for a brief moment, just for one-

You shudder, whimpering in the most embarrassingly needy way. He tastes of Ben; of cinnamon and apples and warming winter fires. Of love and want and need and Ben, endless Ben - coiled around your heart in a way that won't ever let you separate from him. Warmth blooms in the base of your spine, a little damp on your underwear. His warmth, his hardness is painfully strained against his padded pants and he's so desperate: _please, I have to knot her, please please please._

But you've come this far. If you wait another moment, let your resolve waver just a little more - you'll both die in this room.

Your gaze tears from him, back to your little nest. Thick red curtains sprawled out, clothes billowing from the sheets. Feathers and scraps. Home. Your entire being just wants to curl back up in those blankets and let him take you again: let him hold you like he did last night. Like he has all these days; nipping your gland and showering you with praise, his knot dulling the flames in your stomach. To nest and be safe, to wait and hope and fuck until you're full of him, bathed in the scent of a mate who will care for you until the stars burn out.

"I wish I could tell you" Ben breathes, his lips inches from yours. "I wish I had the words to tell you how much you've changed...everything. Given it reason. Everything I've been since I was fifteen, sixteen - its been driven by this endless fear, this feeling that I'm running as fast as I can. I've been running all this time: running from myself, and then running from Snoke. Running from the past. Running from the truth." He swallows and it crackles in his throat, dry and thick as his voice wobbles. "But I was wrong _again_. I wasn't running from anything. It was all just...a reason. To run towards _you_."

Your heart swells against your ribs - burning so brightly you can hardly comprehend the feeling in your chest. Honey eyes study you, calloused hands holding you firm against him. Ben Solo's dark hair curls close to his lip, and for the briefest infinity; you imagine the world before the radiation touched the dirt and poisoned the heart of the earth. A world where Ben could've gone to medical school; where you might've learned to be patient and gentle and worked to protect him all at once. Where Ben Solo could come home, late in the hours of the night, fumbling at his keys and dropping textbooks on a coffee table: just to find you curled on the sofa, fast asleep. And he'd pull you flush to him, a kiss on your forehead as he guides you to your bedroom; your head on his heart, his hand on your cheek.

You want it for him so, so badly. You want him to have it so much that it razes your spirit to ash and dust - for Ben to feel whole so much that it feels like a second skin.

But for you: there's only him. Only this.

Every other world is just another path back to his side. That's all.

"I love you, Ben. Catastrophically so. I always have."

Ben trembles; sucking in a breath.

"Then: nothing can hurt me", he whispers.

You hope beyond all things he's right.

* * *

 

"HELP! PLEASE! HOLY FUCKING SH-"

Finn's screams echo through the clearing as he pants and gasps for dear life; clothes covered in fresh blood. Poe's hand, previously snaked around your waist, now holds the man's shoulder as Finn trembles against him. Your eyes widen; gaze darting back down the path, through the twists of undergrowth. Back the way Finn had run.

"Buddy, easy! What's going on? Bandits?" Poe prompts him, cocking a brow as he meets Finn's dark eyes.

Finn shakes his head.

"No, they were-" he heaves a breath through fearful lungs "-oh fuck, oh fuck! They darted Ben and I just _bolted_."

Everything stops. The world blurs.

Your hand is on the rifle before your brain has even registered the action.

Poe's scuffed hand comes up to signal you to stop - but it's a meaningless gesture. Your actions are predetermined at this point. You both _know_ that. You might be with Poe, might care for him - but there are things unsaid. Ben's presence has always lingered in the periphery for you both: for Poe, his friendship has been a bastion.

For you: something else entirely.

"Don't." Poe's voice is firm; solid. You're not sure if he's telling you as your partner, or telling you because he can guess your frame of mind - but the result is the same regardless.

"Fuck you, Poe. Move out of my way."

Poe's teeth click.

"You'll die. That's the picture."

"I won't ask you again." Your tone leaves nothing to the imagination: hands trembling as the truth starts setting in. Oh God. Please, no. Please please please. Not him. Not...Not Ben. Take anyone, but don't...

Poe turns away from Finn to grab you by the shoulders: firm squeeze between your blades as his face ducks to yours. Brown hair curls at his forehead, his square jaw locked tight.

"He's my best friend too. You think I want this? Think I want to see him..." 

Dead. Enslaved. Whatever it is these assholes are doing now. 

Poe huffs, continuing on.

"If you go after him now; they'll take you too. Don't ask me to lose you both."

_Don't ask me to let him go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a while. I re-wrote it like 3 billion times!
> 
> Anyway, the next one will be out fairly shortly because I'm already half-way through it. I started this whole other bit here but I began to realise the next chapter really needs its own start and end.
> 
> We're getting close to the last sprint now guizzzzz


	9. Sprint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are worth risking your life for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for murder! Yay murder!

One. Two. Three. Four.

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Run.

One. Two. Three-

Ben's lungs throb with the lack of oxygen. Pain tangles in his limbs as he vaults a broken branch, his boot kicking up mud as he lands on the other side. Off in the distance, sirens whir and beep in a symphony of sound: calling out for his benefit. Seeking him - whirring to signal that their merchandise is lost. He forgets, often, that becoming a Commander was almost entirely done on ceremony to keep him here. Forgets that for all of his suffering, all of his trials; he has been a slave for long enough that they had wrongly assumed he wouldn't crave his own liberation.

He's had chances before to escape. He never took them - not after they Processed him. There's something heartbreaking in that; in the number of Alpha guys who won't try to run. 

What do they have to run back to, after all? They don't even _look_ the same. His parents might not even recognise him.

But there was something dangerous about Snoke putting you and Ben together. Ben isn't sure which of you he underestimated (he wonders if it could be both of you, come to think of it) but he didn't see the bigger picture. Didn't realise just how deep the bond between you ran.

Dark hair licks his cheek as he turns to the side: watching you several paces ahead. You easily clear a fallen tree limb without any real effort. Pride pricks at the bond between you, and the little voice that Ben tries to keep suppressed pipes up. It won't stop goddamn piping up today - preening over his new mate. Even when he should be focused on running for his life: his mind is constantly buzzing back to you. His gland throbs dully under his padded armour, still a little tender.

_Capable mate. Good mate. **Strong**._

Something tangy and sharp dances on the roof of Ben's mouth; someone close by. A threat.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Anxiety tugs at his veins, blooming in his blood as you manage to make it over the treeline and just out of his sight. You've got the gun, you're more than capable of defending yourself. But he can't help it - he's downright _scared_. Every fiber of his being craves to be back in that nest, holding you tight and licking at your gland. Protecting you. Protecting-

"Shit!" Ben hisses, his thigh suddenly so acutely painful that he can't suppress the sudden shock of it. A gunshot noise rattles the sky, and Ben's immediate response is to locate the threat. He grips at the sore point, trying to assess the damage.

But there's...nothing. It hurts like he's been shot clean through the muscle of his leg but his armour is intact. No surface breach, no nothing.

Then what-

Fuck. Oh God.

See: Ben remembers this old television his dad kept when he was a kid. This big, black box with a little slot for disks to go in. It's not like they're made anymore, so the thing was practically a relic - an antique. Believed to be several hundred years old. But Han had this footage taped - some sort of broadcast from when the first bombs hit, all those years ago. Han was a little obsessed with the history behind it all, and little Ben had just loved it. Loved the flashing lights, the colours.

But Ben remembers this one part of the broadcast where they show footage of a city. Lights shone like little twinkling yellow stars in the windows, sprawling out for miles and miles. When the first bombs hit, the first places that were targeted were power generators, see. Anywhere that could produce energy was the first to go; and so a few days before cities started being levelled, they all lost power. There's this thirty second clip Han would play over and over: those little lights going out. Building by building. It wasn't immediate: not like the clicking of fingers. Slow. Cutting off the blood supply to the city. Waves of power, slowly stuttering out. Leaving only the few with heavy-duty backup generators running - a cloak of darkness.

Ben had only seen it happen in that little broadcast. He'd never expected to feel, in his mind, the same process. The same stuttering of time.

But he does.

Oh God, he does.

Time moves strangely - Ben doesn't remember when he cleared the treeline, bursting into a sprint. His teeth are gritted together into a snarl as he ripples with pain and fury and nothing else; there's just _nothing else_. He's a vessel: he's not even in control as he sees you on the ground clutching your leg and crimson seeping through your armour. Your thigh has been shot clean through and oh god oh god there's a man with your gun in his hands and his boot on your chest and fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK-

And then the man careens sideways as Ben impacts him at insane speed: throwing his full weight onto your assailant and snapping and clawing and _screaming_. Alpha pheromones taint the ground below him as he struggles against a man that he has a passing familiarity with - but Ben doesn't give one fuck who it is he's mincing. His hands claw for the gun as they roll, snapping at one another.

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Ben screams "YOU SHOT MY MATE AND YOU'RE GOING TO DIE FOR IT!"

Ben's assailant throws a heavy punch right into Ben's jaw: blood filling his mouth and a ringing clawing at his ears. Ben can't think--can't _see_. He's driving on instinct that screams in his ears, adrenaline raging as the barrel of the gun points at Ben's head. He knocks it out of the guy's hand with a swipe and somehow - _somehow_ , you've grabbed it. You're on your feet, blood trickling down to your boot and your lip busted: but you aim the shot-

BANG.

And Ben's assailant falls limp: blood chugging from a wound that goes clean through his forehead. He's dead before Ben can even work out what's going on.

Ben lets the corpse of the man below him slump to the floor, muscles tightening and body shaking as he slowly, carefully rises to stand. You hold your thigh gingerly as the gun rattles at your hip.

"Are you okay?" you huff, swallowing hard. You curse under your breath as your weight shifts.

Ben wants to respond - wants to allay your fears. But he's not able to formulate the words he needs to force out: he's still moving through time at a weird angle. His blood is fucking pumping and his hair is _everywhere_ , everywhere as he huffs and tries to figure out how he can protect you from _everything_. He doesn't like this - he's not feeling sane and he's not able to ground himself enough to bring his attention to helping you. He only realises he's hyperventilating when his head starts to spin from the excess oxygen.

A dirt road cracks underfoot as Ben spots a parked van: jet black. Tinted windows. One of the ones they use to transport slaves in and out of the area: a self-contained little unit with a bed in the back. He estimates you've got about three minutes before you're getting shot at again, if you stay here.

Your eyes follow his, and you slowly limp over to the door. It's unlocked: keys still in the ignition. Probably the first piece of good luck either of you have had since this ordeal began.

"Ben" you say calmly, returning to him and resting your hand on his forearm lightly.

He flinches. Flinches out of your grip like you've burned him. Hurt is plain on your face, but you bite down on your busted lip.

"Ben, we need to move. I can't drive with a busted leg, so I need you to stay with me here."

That snaps something in him: he doesn't quite know how it happens, but the next thing he knows - he's behind the wheel. You're fumbling in the glovebox at some plastic wrappings, trying to dress the wound on your leg. Ben's hands are so tight on the wheel that they've turned white, tingling: and he's going at about a hundred miles an hour. His foot is on the gas but Christ; how the fuck is he here? What's wrong with him? This isn't _normal_.

"Ben?"

His mind is swimming: he's fucking shaking in his skin and he's still so rigid that he hurts. 

"Ben, please?"

He can't stop; he's picturing himself strangling the life out of the guy that attacked you. Thinking of the way his pulse would jump as he choked him, thinking of watching the lights leave his eyes-

"Alpha."

Ben does snap around at that.

Your eyes are wide - your hand curled around one of his on the wheel. Your thumb flicks at his wrist, _just_ the way he does it when he's nervous. Pain prickles across your bond: but more, too. Gratitude. Concern. Something softer still. 

"Come back to me" you breathe, smiling sadly.

Ben eases his foot off the accelerator just enough that the van slows slightly: the blurs of green forest becoming clearer. He isn't sure how long he's been driving for, but the sun is slowly beginning to sink to the horizon. The territory Snoke controls is _huge;_ you won't be safe for at least another few hours. But the distance between you both and the encampment is growing rapidly.

Ben just wishes that didn't inspire such _terror_ in him.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I don't..." Ben takes a deep breath in, biting down on his lip. The scent of other Alphas lingers on his palate, the pheromones having bled into the fabric of the seats: but Ben focuses on _you_. Everything on you. On your familiar smell - on the quiet joy your presence brings him.

"You have nothing to apologise for. Nothing."

Ben swallows thickly. It crackles in his throat.

"You're in pain."

The remark is more an acknowledgement than anything - he can feel the way pain radiates through your body. Too many different sorts of pain. He feels the throbbing in your leg as though it's his own: but he also feels your exhaustion. The way your muscles are too tight from shock, from fear. And one pain he's better aquainted with than any of the others; the heat pooling in the bottom of your stomach. His pheromones are darting and spiking with the excess adrenaline, and it's pulling your heat back into force. Pulling his rut back up into his muscles - even _now_. When all other priorities are anything but that.

You shrug, sucking the inside of your cheek.

"Not the worst gunshot wound I've ever had, surprisingly."

Ben doesn't laugh; his dark eyes on the road. Darkness is falling like a veil over the treeline - he knows he can't drive once it settles. These roads are heavily patrolled, and an entire camp is out searching for you both. The headlights, the noise - it'll bring them down onto you. He needs sleep, too. Needs to breathe.

You set to work cleaning up your wound while Ben stays quiet, stays focused as he turns down and off the dirt road. The trees are thicker here, and they scratch at the van's hull as Ben manouvers between them. You both jolt around and Ben mutters apologies when you hiss from the pain: but finally, Ben finds a spot that he thinks will do the trick. A little ways off from the road, where pine trees are so close together that the van is nearly encased in them. He's lucky he's so confident at driving, because several years ago this would've really freaked him out.

Your doors pop open and Ben rushes around to you; using his hands to support your elbows. Your skin is getting warmer, Ben notes: there's something needy rising up in your scent. Adrenaline has kept both of your needs at bay, but you're newly mated and seeking comfort. It's only natural that your bodies are craving one another's comfort.

He opens up the doors: revealing a makeshift nest. Bedding, soft pillows, blankets. A little metal hook on one wall that Ben doesn't want to think about.

You groan as you climb up the step and let yourself fall on the mattress; let yourself finally indulge your desire to be safe. Ben knows that need - nesting is something he does when he's fretting, when he's nervous. He lets you take a moment, though, as you rearrange the blankets and pillows. Heady concentration plucks at Ben's bond, your soft comfort drawing into his. 

"Don't know why this feels so fucking good" you breathe, huffing into one of the pillows as you lay back to observe your work.

Ben lets his questions tremble along the bond to you - asking permission to enter. You hold out a hand to him and he suddenly feels a whirl of emotion clawing at him, making his lip tremble. _Mate. Nest. Mate cares._

"Nesting" Ben sighs, pulling the doors closed with a soft thud. "You're stressed - it helps a lot." His eyes travel down to the botchy bandage job you've done on your leg.

"Can I re-do that for you, love? I'd like to check it, if you'll let me."

You nod slowly, pulling at your armour and carefully stripping down to your underwear. Ben's head spins when he sees your soaked underwear, saturated in slick: but he tries to redirect his focus. He peels off your bandage, checking the wound with calloused fingers. It's a clean break through the skin: but luckily, it missed your femoral artery. Thank God. It's angry and red, covered in blood - but not life threatening. Not immediately terrifying.

Ben ruffles through his backpack, setting to work on your wounds. It's a slow process, but Ben feels...feels good. Really good. This is what he loves - caring for you is heaven in itself. But fixing wounds? Tending to them? Yes: that's what he was born to do. Healing. You chew down aspirin and antibiotics as he washes the wound, fingers gentle and delicate. He's acutely aware that slick is dripping close to the wound - his touch, even with the pain, is lighting up the need that peels through your blood.

"Ben..." you whisper, sucking the inside of your teeth. His hands become a little less stable as he ties the bandages - his cock pushing at his stomach and pulsing at his name on your lips.

_Knot._

"I know, sweetheart. I need you, too."

And Ben's hands are coarse and careless as they run across the bridges and planes of his armour, his padded shirt. Belts clink, the sound of leather on skin. Your eyes drink him in with a hazy need, your hands drifting between your legs to ease the pressure growing there with a soft moan. He lets it all fall away until his naked skin is bared to you; his cock hard and straining in his palm as he strokes it.

Pleasure radiates through his bones as he appraises you: his cheeks flushing pink.

"You're so fucking beautiful", Ben whispers reverently. "I'm so, so lucky to have you."

And your smile - your _smile_. It burns through Ben, radiating through his blood and turning it to ash. It is everything to him: every single moment he's spent loving you, wanting you, culminated in the way you glow around him. All of those years, all of this time. All the people you've been since he held your hand when you were fifteen years old are reflected back in the woman he sees before him. 

It was all worth it.

He's gentle when he strokes his cock against you, sighing as he brings his lips to your gland. He feels the way your mind reels from the sensation as he sucks on it, coaxing a thick pool of slick from between your legs. And when he sinks into you; well, Ben Solo could just as well be made of starlight.

"I love you so much."

Your breathy admission has Ben whimpering under his breath: his slow, soft thrusts punctuating the embarrassingly whiny sounds escaping his mouth. He loves you more than anything and...God. He feels as though he's just so full of it, of this intense and powerful _love_. Your love, his love - mixing and muddling and joining. He always did feel as though this powerful need was leaking from his pores: but now he knows for sure.

You're going to cum, he realises. It's so alien for him to feel your pleasure as his own, but it's so beautiful, too. His eyes water as you tighten, climaxing around him with a drawn-out moan. It's blissful - Ben could hold you like this forever. In the quiet dark of the night, free at last. In a soft makeshift nest with the love of his life clenching around him. 

Heaven.

 _"Please"_ Ben huffs, licking at your neck "please". He's not even sure what he's asking for - whether he's asking for anything. Perhaps it's just an admission of desperation.

He picks up the pace, cautious of the injuries in your thigh. But fuck; he needs his knot to inflate. Needs it badly. He's starting to feel his conscious mind grow hazy with need as he slams his hips, lips parting as the smell of your slick fills him with a desperation that drags him closer and closer to the edge.

"Alpha; Knot me, please!"

And Ben feels it: stronger than ever. He squeezes his eyes shut as he drawn out moan leaves his plush lips, tickling the shell of your ear. Blood rushes to his knot and it hardens: filling you and stretching you as slick pushes out and around it. Your body buzzes with bliss as cum pulses from his cock, his eyes rolling back as his body shudders with it. Oh God. Fuck. This is heaven.

"Can't even explain" Ben rasps, sucking back spit as he trembles "explain how good...oh God, I'm...fuck!"

His knot clenches _hard:_ almost vibrating as you dig your nails into Ben's muscled back. Your pheromones sing out to him - _yes_. _Such a good provider._ And _fuck._ Cumming is so, so much more pleasurable now. He's resented his knot for as long as he's had it: ever since they Processed him years ago. But this? How could sex without knotting ever come close? It's so exquisitely fulfilling that it makes his heart leap in his chest.

He pulls you both onto your sides, bringing up one of the heavier blankets and tucking you both in. He reaches around to rearrange the pillows _just enough t_ o sate his own need to nest as his knot holds you in place.

"It's a weird need, isn't it?" you hum with a breathy laugh. He settles back down and you lean in to nuzzle into his chest. It feels so goddamn right: and he rests his chin on your hair, arms wrapped around you and his lips on your scalp. You taste _exquisite_.

"Mmmm" Ben sighs. "Should've seen me the first time they gave me my own quarters. I spent about t-" he stutters out, heaving a breath as his knot pumps. "T-wo days just - mm - rearranging everything. Feels so good though. Dopamine rushes."

You jostle your hips a little to accommodate the overfull feeling of your abdomen, which gives Ben a lick of pleasure in his spine. He's filled you up: filled you with his cum. His mating gland itches as the little Alpha voice in his head pipes up again.

_Pups._

You obviously feel some sort of semblance of what he's thinking, because you sigh in contentment. Something flashes through your mind: an image. Ben's pushing a little girl on a swing: his hair tousled by the breeze. Her laughter is musical: brown eyes wide as sunlight kisses her freckled skin.

 _Yes,_  Ben agrees, feeling tears prick in the corners of his eyes.  _Please._

It's a little cold in the back of the van, and despite the nest: Ben can't help but stay alert. Exhaustion is the thing that finally claims him - pushing him into a deep and peaceful sleep.

* * *

 

It's the middle of the night when he wakes: an almost dreamlike pleasure in his bones.

You're tangled along with him, your chest rising and falling sleepily. A noise keeps passing through your lips, a soft trilling. Warbling from the back of your throat as Ben dips his lips down to yours, trying to capture the sound.

_"Christ."_

Ben is in a state of utter reverence - you're _purring._ It's absolutely sublime: he's never heard the sound before and it's the most exquisite thing. You must feel so safe with him, so safe next to him - he wants nothing more than to stay like this. 

Something smells a little off, he notes. Something in the sheets, maybe. He huffs, and the scent has his eyes almost rolling back. It's something heavenly - something in your pores. From claiming you, perhaps? Maybe that's it. His scent blending to yours.

Come to think of it - that's exactly what it smells like. He can...smell himself on you. _In you._ But more: it's...something separate. Something _better_.

He rises up slightly, huffing at your gland a little. Oh. God. You smell so goddamn fucking _good_. Ben just wants to keep you here, keep you safe - keep you purring contentedly. He wishes he had more blankets to give you, more he could do to protect you. Softer nest. The softest nest.

_Soft nest for strong pups._

Ben freezes.

And he breathes.

And breathes.

He's crying - he can feel it on his cheeks. He tries to take a breath in but it catches in his chest and comes out as a full on sob: crackling as he tries to suppress it. His whole body starts to shake all over as he just...just clings to the moment. Clings to this fleeting hope, this fleeting moment of uncertainty that fizzes through him. _Please. Please let this be real. Don't let this be in my head._

So Ben wipes his eyes and gently, carefully, leans his mouth and nose in to press to your stomach.

He huffs.

And then he chokes out a sob.

His lips brush against the skin there, dripping warm tears on your abdomen as he lets himself have this moment. The aggression he felt. The nesting you were doing. It makes sense now. It all makes so much sense now.

Ben listens to the sound of your purring, the sound of wind on the van. Breathing in the new scent of life that radiates from your pores.

And for the first time in the longest of times - Ben Solo is crying with a smile brighter than the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm  
> Shaking
> 
>  
> 
> [Meet me on Tumblr](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com/)


	10. Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how long this fic has been building to this point. And how many red herrings I planted to get us here.
> 
> Oh boyyyyyyy

Dawn breaks.

Light filters down through the windows in a soft shade of green: so little sunlight reaching through that it dapples on the sheets. It warms the tips of your toes, the back of your legs - a quiet pooling in the darkness. You blink off sleep that weighs your eyes, and feel heavy muscle covering you. Flutterings of breath on your cheek.

Ben's body is entwined to you as though it's an extension of your own skin - so close that you are one and the same. His legs tangle around yours, his knee between your thighs. One arm under your head; his other hand splayed across your bare stomach. There's something so...so right about it. So gentle. Soft and sweet and honest.

His breathing is steady, lips on the tender skin at your throat as his hair covers... _everything_. He really does have the most ridiculous amount of hair nowadays; how it doesn't weigh down his head like a lead weight you're yet to know. A little piece of it falls across the skin on your brow; black as pitch and shining in the light. Does he know? Does he honestly, honestly know how _beautiful_ he is? He always was beautiful, you think. A baby bird, all spindly and graceless and tripping on his own feet. But iridescent, somehow: a light shining straight out of him.

You had believed him to have lost that light. You had spent too long believing it had been snuffed out, his candle burning to nothing.

But you had never been more wrong. You know that now.

You feel his lips twitch on your neck, as though the muscles on his face are slowly drawing upward.

"Your thoughts" he says, groggy with sleep as the bow of his lip traces the curve of your neck with a smile "are _very_ loud."

You hum, shifting under him and away ever so slightly. But as you move; he follows. The tide against the shore, always reaching up to meet it.

_Awfully clingy today._

"And yours are quiet as a church mouse" you sigh. "Is there a reason for it?"

Ben shifts, pressing his weight onto the forearm behind your neck. His muscles ripple with the effort, sunlight weaving specks of brown into his dark tresses. When his eyes finally greet yours; they are positively _shining_. Dimples pressed into his cheeks as he bites his lip to stifle the most glowing smile.

Radiant. He looks radiant.

"Okay, now I know something's going on. What game are you playing, Ben?"

He drifts his eyes down, down to where his hand rests on your bare stomach, just below the soft quilt.

And then, he turns back to you watery eyed: pressing his lips gently to yours.

And your mind just...reels.

_"-he just...just clings to the moment. Clings to this fleeting hope, this fleeting moment of uncertainty that fizzes through him. Please. Please let this be real. Don't let this be in my head-"_

_"Oh"._

It's all you can say.

Nothing profound - no poetry spilling forth. A quiet, muffled, teary sound. Because there are...there are no words. Not for this. 

No, never for this.

"You're sure?"

Ben's eyes are red raw, tears tracking on his bones when he nods. There's a smile on his face and a song in his heart; but he chokes on a sob as the words try to come out.

 _"Yes"._ The word is punched from his lungs as he squeezes his eyes tightly shut. "I thought...thought I might be wrong but...I can feel it. In here" he takes his hand from your stomach and points his index finger at his head, twisting it. "It's like knowing the sky is blue. The sun sets. It's so innate; my whole center of gravity has just shifted."

And perhaps it's an Alpha thing, or perhaps it's Ben. If Alphas can smell heat, if Ben can taste your mood and feel flickers of your thoughts - this is no stretch at all. His nose is sharper, his moods stronger. His life has always been built on observance and patience.

And as he says it: you know. You know it, too.

"Ben" you sob. "This is the most...the most _beautiful_..."

It shouldn't be beautiful. Weeks ago, this would have been disastrous. 

But there is only forward. And you have nearly died so many times that life, in any form, feels like the most miraculous thing to have. So defiant in its nature: so ready to combat a world of broken fear and hate and sallow faces. The Processed Omega in you basks, preens - despite all circumstance, she feels a completeness that drives you to feel giddy with it.

_Fulfilled purpose. A good, strong, fertile mate. Provider. Ben provides._

So you both sob and laugh and cry and hug until you are worn through: until the shock has passed and the blood stops sizzling in your veins dramatically. Ben is like the sun; he's too _bright_ in this moment. Encompassing and bright, burning. Burning through as his smile reaches up to his eyes.

He kisses your bare stomach as you laugh; kisses it and lets his tears smear to your skin.

"I love you so much already" he whispers reverently, cheeks flushed "you'll grow up to be strong like your mama. I can just tell."

You urgently poke him with the container of fruit from his backpack, biting your nails with your free hand as you grin.

"They're a few days old, Ben. At most. They're just a cluster of cells."

Ben takes the container in one hand, peppering your stomach with kisses in a way that makes you squirm and laugh.

"Don't listen to her" he mumbles into your stomach, his face obscured by his mop of hair "she's just grumpy that you're hogging all the attention."

You don't deny it as Ben sits up; popping open the lid of the fruit container and glaring at the contents. He picks out a piece of melon and holds it out to you.

"I'm not hungry."

Ben's whole face scrunches.

"You need to eat."

You bat away his hand, playfully chastising him.

"You go ahead. I'll have whatever's left."

Ben genuinely, actually winces. The bond between you pulses with anxiety, fretting at the corners of Ben's vision as he sucks his lip. He's transparently frustrated, stuck in a war between respecting your tone and his instincts screaming at him to provide for you. Something in your scent must be sending out a signal to him, because he's got that vibe of a creature dropping a kill at your feet. Eat; keep my pups healthy and strong.

You wonder if he'll ever stop fretting.

"Please" Ben groans, holding up the container to you "just...do it for me. Alpha brain is freaking out and I need him to shut up right now."

You give a dramatic sigh, but pick out a cube of apple and put it into your mouth. Ben immediately buzzes with this weird dopamine rush over your bond; his brain is secreting chemicals to keep him providing, keep him doting on you like you're some-

No. This isn't just that. Ben also needs to be needed, in some way. He always has.

You take the container and tap the plastic as you eat down a few more; once Ben feels content that you won't starve, he takes a little for himself.

"Is he speaking up a lot this morning? Since you found out?"

Ben nods, running a hand through his hair sheepishly.

"Yeah. Constantly."

"About anything in particular?"

He flushes, chewing his lip.

"It's a long list."

You hum contentedly, setting down the plastic tub and taking a swig of water.

Ben's brain buzzes again, and he gets stuck somewhere between frustration and pleasure.

"If you're like this for another nine months" you chuckle "you're going to drive us both insane."

Ben looks away. He doesn't say anything at all.

* * *

 

Unease.

That's the best word for the flitting, for the nagging. It burns like an acid, like the ball in your throat you cant seem to get out. It's not pain like a broken bone, nor a crippling and bending sadness. It doesn't snap you, it doesn't rend you in two until you snap and fall apart. 

Unease is like a cancer. Anxiety is much the same: it grows and grows, sinking through your blood.

It waits.

It is patient.

It can take its time, you see. Unease is not the rending, because unease is more subtle. The broken bones may kill and split in seconds, but unease takes hours. Days. Months. Years. It sits in the darkness and follows you like a shadow; slowly adding drops of pain straight downward.

It is the purposeless suffering, for which the only cure is time.

You keep your pistol loaded; four bullets left now. Ben's hands are still plastered to the wheel, but he's sweating fiercely; he's nervous and fretting as you drive straight down the broken ruins of a highway. At any point, at any moment - your tire could be shot out. Spiked out. You could be sniped through the windscreen and dead in a second. Ben is hardly coping: he reaches into the backpack in your lap and curses as he shuffles through.

"Okay?" you ask quietly.

He doesn't answer.

He grabs a brown tube, stares at the labeling for a moment. On shaky hands, he pops two little white pills into his mouth and hands the little plastic cylinder back to you. They seem to stick in his throat, but he's shaking like a leaf and there's a stress headache grinding on the inside of his skull.

The letters are bold, written in loopy handwriting.

"Xanax," you read aloud.

Ben chews his lip, hard.

You're not sure exactly what it's for - it's not like medicines are readily available nowadays. But it's familiar; some sort of stress-reducing drug. You consider popping a few yourself.

Ben's anxiety spikes as he frets, but he says nothing.

You can appreciate how fucking hard this must be for him. All of it. Everything. He's been stuck here for over two years, been alone. Now he has you, has a baby for goodness sake. Has stupid Alpha instincts that are pretty fretty normally; but now they're wild with it. He's strung tight as a bowstring, desperate to keep you safe but not feeling safe himself. Knowing you're close to a perimeter that could be manned by anyone. Could have you taken away.

It's like the worst separation anxiety in the world: it's dangerous. Neither of you can be certain of what happens next.

You don't see any vehicles along the road; and after a little while, the trees begin to thin out. Terrain becomes flatter, more recognizable. Every so often he reaches for your hand, gives you a squeeze; but it's only for a moment. He can't afford to lose focus.

And when you see a familiar control tower: relief surges through your blood. You've been to this tower, manned it before. Still within Snoke's territory, but only just. It's peripheral; almost never used, save for emergency transmissions through the borders. The silver dish glares, and your eyes sting.

Home.

Ben doesn't have the same rush of relief, though: he's a bundle of nerves, a live wire - uncovered, unconnected. His mind is blurry with the Xanax he's taken, but he's obviously torn about what the hell is going on. He wants to go home--but where is home, to him? He moves like he's uncertain as the van pulls off the highway, onto the grassy embankment. 

"We'll try to get out a scrambled transmission to base" he says, pumping the breaks as the van grinds to a halt. "Get them to prepare for us. If we drive up in a slaving van-"

"-I like having my head on the right way around."

Ben nods, his face softening as he leans over the center console to press a kiss to your lips. He tastes like apples and crispness and home.

Home is not a place; it is Ben Solo.

It always will be.

Your armour is sticking to your skin as you push the door open and step out onto the dirt path: rocks cracking under your feet. Your leg stings like a bitch, but it's _okay_. You're not dying - not now, anyway. You sling the backpack over your shoulders as Ben fidgets around in the van, pocketing the keys and grabbing leftover supplies from the side compartments. You don't know how long it'll be until you hear back; you might not be coming back to this van, period. If you get spotted by henchmen, you're going to be booking it across the terrain.

Every little thing could save your life.

Ben's hands are clammy and he looks pale: but he brightens when he comes back around to you. Brightens to a nervous smile as he puts his arm around your waist to support you, kissing your gland for good measure in a way that makes your chest rumble.

"I still taste like me, right?"

Ben lets his nose drift against your jawbone.

"Always."

And you limp up the pathway, hand on the pistol you have holstered as you lean against Ben's black armour. You're hyperaware of every movement, every scuffle of your feet; but reveling in this, too. Reveling in having gotten this far. This close to freedom.

The control tower sits on top of an outcrop, surrounded by crumbling grey concrete and a window with bars. Almost like prison bars; intimidating in their industrial design. The huge silver dishes sit overhead, high above you: now flaking and breaking away. The fact that this relic had survived nuclear obliteration would never cease to amaze you.

The forest surrounding is eerily silent. Birdsong is absent from the trees; as though the world is holding its breath.

Reaching the door, Ben set you down against the cool concrete wall. It scuffs at your palms; but it's nice, in a way. Familiar. 

Lowly, Ben's eyes flicker to the door.

"I'm going to clear it out" Ben whispers, puffing air from his chest "but I'll need the pistol."

You open your mouth to retaliate, to defend your own capability - but you relent. There are battles to be picked, and you being injured, pregnant and having a perfectly hissy Alpha about you being put in harms way all stack up to a battle not worth having. You unholster the gun, and Ben gives it the once over.

"Safety's on the-"

"-I know" Ben whispers, irritated.

He holds the gun to his chest, not quite fluidly - and kicks in the door with a sudden movement. You keep your back flat against the concrete; flat against the wall as you huff nervously.

But no sound of struggle occurs. You scent no potent tang of Alphas; just some stale Beta smells, left from long ago.

Breathe.

You hear clicking, Ben's boots on the concrete. Ben's head throbs from anxiety, but it dulls in the wake of realising you're both safe enough.

That'll have to do.

You poke your head around the door: seeing Ben lower his gun. His thick hair drifts about in the breeze, chocolate eyes taking in the little transmitter and the dials complimenting it. It's a wreck in here, but it's...functioning. Not in a terrible enough state to disuade you.

You sling down your backpack and move to collapse onto the broken fold-out chair, flicking on the switch and turning the dials. The machine cracks and spits as you search out the right frequency: pulling out the little microphone and holding the switch on the side.

Even so - you can't seem to get the right frequency and the machine hisses and spits at you.

"Fucking useless thing" you mutter, smacking the side of the box. It replies with a useless, angry chittering of static.

The Xanax in Ben's system stars to wean out, letting his anxiety trickle back in over your bond. He's nervous, desperate to nest and be somewhere dark, quiet. You know you should be, too - but you've always been more rugged than him. He overthinks and overthinks - but you solve every problem, one bit at a time.

It's in your blood.

You give up on the radio for a moment: drawing to your feet to bring Ben close. He doesn't hesitate; his arms encircle you, bringing you right up to his chest. A hard wall of muscle against your cheek as you listen to his heartbeat--it's fast. Too fast. He's trying and trying but he's afraid, he's stressed and afraid and he loves you so much that it's overloading his brain. You can feel his thoughts racing, out of control, too fast-

His chest hitches on a sob. It spills over; filling him with shame as he hides his face in your hair.

"Hey" you coo, rubbing circles into the small of his back on his armour. "You're okay. I'm here. I'm safe--we're all safe. We're so close now."

Ben groans; wetness on your scalp.

"I can't do this. I thought I could--thought I was _stronger_ than this. But I'm fucking-"

"-You can, Ben. It's okay. Look how far we've come already. Alpha, I'm so-"

And with an insistent nudge downward, he crushes his lips to yours.

The kiss is needy, whiny. No softness, no give: his tears track on your cheeks, his heart thundering as he licks into your mouth and you _moan_. It's a kiss made for stories - stories you might one day tell, when all of this is over. A story of love, of loss, of rekindling and fire. Wanting and wanting, until nothing is left but the ache in your bones.

When he pulls back; his lashes are smattered with tears.

"Promise me something?" he whispers softly, resting his forehead on yours.

You hum in response.

"Anything."

Ben closes his eyes.

"When you think of me" he breathes "remember that I will always, always love you as I do now. Think of me and know - really, truly know - that I will never stop fighting for you. For a life you can love. Not once."

You frown; right as Ben grasps your wrist - hard. Clicks something into place: cold metal on your arm that tightens to the bar of the window.

Ben sobs, loudly; a keening noise full of pain.

"And please, _please_ sweetheart: forgive me" he sobs, pulling away as his frame shakes "you can't know how _fucking_ unbearable this is."

You grab for him with your free hand, panicking as you strain against a cuff that Ben has clicked into place on the bars of the window. He's too quick--he stumbles away from you until his back hits the far wall. His mind is chaos; he's screaming, screaming in such intense emotional pain that burns through him like wildfire.

And you - you feel hysteria rising in your chest. Confusion, pain, hurt, anger: they rise up to swallow you whole. 

"Ben?! What the-?!"

"I'm sorry!" he cries, digging his palms into the concrete wall as his red eyes stream with tears. His hair sticks to his face with the madness in them; he's half-sick and he's terrified, a wild animal. "This is the only way I can keep you both safe!"

And then Ben's palms are up over his head; there's a gun pointed right at head and a man on the other end of it. Tattered brown coat, dark unkempt curls.

"Hands still, Solo. Nice and easy. You try anything and I'll blow your pretty fucking head off."

Poe Dameron.

* * *

 

"You figured it out."

Ben clenches his jaw. The collar at his neck chatters, beeping off as it bumps his gland.

"Yes."

Snoke quirks his lip, amusement on his face.

"I'm impressed. How did you manage it?"

This is sick. It's stupid, it's sick and his stomach is _turning_. Alpha pheromones flare, bitter and hot.

Ben can hardly breathe.

"The Xanax."

Snoke claps his hands together, beaming up from his seat.

"I'll admit" he rasps through his scarred face "I should've screened you harder. Most in this wasteland struggle to read, let alone _comprehend_. But you are not most people, are you? Not like them."

Ben says nothing. He shuffles in his tattered clothes, too big to hide from this. Too big to fall back into the brick wall; to let it swallow him.

"Now that you know - what will you do? Call amnesty? Will you write to the UN? Pen a letter for your troubles?"

And that's the reality: it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter what he does. He lost long ago - they all did.

They were slaves long before now.

"Why?" Ben asks quietly.

"Why what?"

Ben licks his lips.

"Why would you do this? Why wouldn't they-"

"-Step in? Restore order? Bring back civilization to the region?" Snoke shrugs. "Come now, Ben: you're a clever man. You all have something in common - if you take your time to think about it, it doesn't seem so complicated." He leans forward in his chair; letting it creak under the weight. "Go on. Prove to me you're not useless and we might find a place for you on the next flight out. Columbia University has an excellent medical school program: I could pen a reference."

It's a trap, and Ben knows it.

But he's dead in the water regardless.

He swallows.

"It's...not the natural state, is it? It's not...we're not..."

Snoke grins.

"You were born with a defective genetic structure. Your Alpha gene never activated properly; never flared. A hundred years ago it was unheard of, but _Ben_. Now it's one in a million. Over six-thousand people. Left to breed, the Beta gene wins. It _always_ wins. An Alpha and a Beta, a Beta and an Omega - their offspring will be Betas, every time. Genetically defective. Every time."

Snoke continues.

"So we screen for it before birth. If the gene is found - we move families here. Take the genetic line out of the pool. The one barren place on Earth, still ravaged from war long gone by. Uninhabited, until this point. A place to study, to understand. And then, we had a breakthrough - we could induce gene reactivation. The first batches were fatal; many after that caused cancers, caused pain and suffering. Our ninth put Omegas into heat perpetually - which was excellent for our birth rate, but ultimately ended in death. And then - then, our twenty-third try was successful. And children were born; normal, healthy Alphas and Omegas. Happy. And we take those children back to civilization, where they can grow and prosper. Where they can be free."

Ben has to reach out, steady himself against the desk.

"There was nothing-" Ben hisses "-nothing wrong with me! You had no right-"

"-Unfortunately, Ben" Snoke laughs, huffing under his breath "I think fifty-two member states beg to differ."

 

Poe points his gun straight up at Ben's face; rifle up, eyes tracked on him like Ben's about to jump him down.

Knowing Ben, tasting the way his pheromones scream and dart at the thought of Poe coming between you both - he just might.

"Ben" you whimper "please, what's...I don't understand!"

Poe glances back at you, brown eyes crinkling as he drinks you in. You must look different, must look alien to him, because shit--you saw him not a fortnight ago and he's looking at you like a familiar stranger might.

"You okay, angel?" Poe asks, sympathy dripping from his tone. It's an old nickname, but it's not gross. Not letchy. It's an attempt at deescalation.

From the way that Ben genuinely _growls_ like a kicked dog; you know it doesn't work.

Poe snaps around.

"Go on then, Solo - do me a favour. Give me a reason to smash in your face."

Your heart lurches, anxiety knotting in your stomach as you strain against the cuff on your wrist. You yank - hard. Splitting pain coils up your arm as you try to reach Ben, Poe, anyone.

"Don't hurt him!" you spit through gritted teeth. Your chain clinks and jangles "you fucking hurt him, Poe, and I'll-"

"-What'd you do, asshole?" Poe hisses, stepping forward to push his rifle right up to Ben's chest, resting the scope right above his heart. He leans in, making Ben twist his face away like a threatened, fearful animal. "You bite her, stick your weird dick in her like she's your fucking property?! Is that it?! You think you can just-"

"-I did what I had to do to save her life, just like what I have to do to save-"

"-You're a fucking dog no matter which way you swing it. I saw what you did to those guys in Harverton, or did you become a Commander through-"

"-think I'm not sorry for what I did?! What I had to do?! I had to do it or they'd have-"

"-Go on then, try it! Fuck me up like the animal you are!"

"POE, I SWEAR TO CHRIST: YOU NEED TO GET AWAY FROM ME. RIGHT NOW."

Ben is literally vibrating; Alpha pheromones jutting out, angry and stressed, _terrified_. His hair is wild, eyes black as pitch and burning through. Your body trembles with so many emotions that you can hardly comprehend them; a whirlwind. A sickening, horrible whirlwind. If you were freed from these bonds, you could pull him close. Drain the fear from him, soothing the anger. But all you serve to do is increase Ben's peaked separation anxiety, serve as his focus as Poe stands between you both.

 _Our Alpha_ , the little Omega voice in your head preens. _Majestic, isn't he?_

No.

Stop.

You need to think. Need.

"Poe, _please_. Please - I know you care. I'm fine, but I need you to put the gun down. Ben can't _breathe_ , Poe."

You can't breathe, either.

Ben pants heavily, wild and threatening as Poe takes a step back. One, then two. Slowly edging away from Ben, putting space between them both in a way that Ben desperately needs. He's too highly threatened: he's going to fuck up, and if he kills Poe he'll never...never forgive himself if he...

He moves to the corner diagonal to you; flattening his palm against the wall as he lets his hair drape down over his face. He dry heaves and coughs, gasping for breath as he urges. It's not good--he's not good. You're not good. Poe isn't good.

What is this?

"Can someone please-" you shudder "-I don't understand. Please. Help me understand."

Poe, thank god, drops the scope of his rifle to his side. He clenches his free fist before turning to you; back to the door. Still keeping a flickering eye on Ben.

"This..." Poe shakes his head in disbelief "...this _asshole_ tried to have us snatched by fucking slavers and smuggled out on a flight. But he miscalculated the whole operation and instead you got dragged up in front of _President_ Snoke and he ran out of options." Poe grinds his teeth "And so then when he didn't stake some...some filthy _claim_ on you, they threatened to have our whole village shot - so what does the hero of the hour decide to do?"

Ben doesn't look up.

"He makes a deal that he'll liberate us _all_ from the confines of this degenerate lifestyle himself, Process us personally, get us all on the next flight out - in exchange for his life in servitude to that _monster_ and your personal amnesty guaranteed. This information lovingly delivered to us all at the hands of his fucking personal goons, storming our encampment and kicking down our livelihoods."

He...He what?

_"Ben?"_

The sound _punches_ from your chest.

Ben's hand grips the wall - knuckles white. He's shaking.

"Still: that wasn't enough, was it? Judging by the way he's looking at you like you're the Virgin Mary I'd say he couldn't help himself. Had to sink his teeth in knowing full well if he got himself murdered, you'd be out for the count. But I guess we should be _thanking you, Ben._ The value of cheap, hormonal love really is worth betraying everything you've ever known for."

The room drops to silence.

Poe glares at Ben: Ben glares at the wall.

And _you_ ; you want to sink. Sink right through the brickwork.

Commander Ren. Commander. You'd said it yourself, heard it said in passing. Ben was never a footsoldier - he had contacts. He had ability. He was respected: respected enough that when he found out that this place wasn't all there was, he had wanted freedom. Wanted it for the people he loved, too.

Snoke had treated him with disdain, not because Ben was lowly, but because he suspected Ben was a traitor. Because he _knew_.

That dinner. Ben's suit. Ben had been drugged, thrown into a room. Had negotiated your place.

Kept it from you - lied, because how would you ever let him go? By the time he had carried you back to those quarters, begging for release - it was done. You would never have let him do it. Would've died first.

You had believed, erroneously, that the world had ended.

But medications don't survive two hundred years. Working cars, bomb-collars. Fresh pistols. Drugs to Process, to change.

The world _is_ dead.

But not because it lays in ruin.

"It doesn't matter."

Ben looks up, then. Looks right up at you; his eyes raw and his heart pounding in his chest.

"What?!" Poe scoffs.

"It doesn't matter. We're dying anyway, slowly. Sooner or later they would've come for us. Changed us or killed us. Broken us. We were never...never really free, were we? Nobody here is free. We never had a choice, Poe. We're trapped. He tried to get us out - tried to save us. And that's more than...more than any of us could've done on our own."

Ben opens his mouth, plump lips soft and dry and cracked. Your bond wavers, dipping and sighing as Ben's body aches. He wants to hold you; wants you to tell him this will all be okay.

If he does; he'll never let go.

You never want him to.

Somewhere, off in the distance - the noise of chopping wind breaks the sky. Puttering, smacking: a helicopter, just like you'd seen in picture books as a kid. Huge metal thing that moves like a bird, setting itself down just nearby.

Ben doesn't take his eyes off of you.

"Come with us," you beg. "Come on, Ben. Please. Come with us."

He shakes his head, feet planted firmly. Eyes wide.

"Don't ask me to do that" Ben groans. "Please. If I try...they'll never let you go. Never let you leave."

You choke on a sob as Poe grabs the shackle key from the table; working at your wrist. He curses as he fiddles with it; all the while, Ben watches. Pale skin almost luminous in the dim light. Throat bobbing as he watches Poe with the jealousy of a man who knows, genuinely, that he would give anything to be the one touching you right now. Even for a moment.

"I don't want to leave without you. you said forever. Alpha, please you-"

And the moment Poe gets your cuff off he grabs you around the waist and you _scream_. You scream and you claw and you kick, thrashing around as Poe wrestles you towards the door.

Ben squeezes his eyes shut, flooding with tears that run down his face in rivulets.

"I meant it," he says, shaking "I love you more than anything else in the world. You don't know how badly I want to see our baby grow up; see you shine. You shine, every day. And I will..." he sniffs "think of that light. Carry it with me in the dark. Every day."

Every day.

You scramble for the doorframe, feeling fucking terrified and heartbroken and angry and wanting, endlessly wanting. Wanting and wanting and wanting, stronger than any heat could ever be.

Ben's lips part as he watches, holding himself steady as though he's breaking. Breaking into tiny pieces.

And then-

He's gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well fuck
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr to scream at me](callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	11. Become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And all I loved, I loved alone."
> 
> \- Edgar Allan Poe

There is a house at the end of the world.

It has four walls; six windows. Two doors. At the edge of a deep and dark wood, it creaks and groans under the weight of its beams. None of the occupants of such a house have ever been remarkable; indeed, the house itself cannot be said to have ever been remarkable at all. It has stood through wars and ages that have otherwise obliterated the sallow earth beneath it: and though the wooden skeleton of such a building has held itself together; it is slowly giving way to the wind and cold.

The damp has let itself in.

It has gone neglected now for some years. Its former occupants are gone; for the first time in its history, there is nothing to motivate the bricks to stay in place. Squirrels dart through the rafters - the occasional squeak of a mouse, when autumn rears and woodland animals seek out a place to burrow down.

The rooms are filled with dust. All of them, dark and dank and cold and alone.

All but one.

No dust is left to gather on the ledges of the window, nor is rust given time to crack along the mirror. What little remains of life in that room is maintained meticulously; it is kept as close to untouched as anything can be, in this forsaken place. Clothes are kept dry - glass picture frames still shine. The gun in the corner was intended to be confiscated, but the barrel is pointed to the heavens, the round still in the chamber. It watches for an occupant that will never return; as does a threadbare doll on the top of the dresser. A mug full of beer bottle caps, nearly full. A stack of books in one corner; pages yellowed, but kept from sticking together by fingers prying them apart, when moisture threatens to take them too.

The only thing that is not kept exquisite is the bed.

The mattress is lumpy: its springs have rusted, but they persist. The sheets have never been changed - not since their owner departed this holy place. Sometimes they are added to - a pile of them accumulated from elsewhere, from a room far off from here. They are kept at the bottom of the wardrobe, tucked and folded away, to keep them from ever losing what clings to them. Something that cannot ever be bought with any amount of money; that cannot be found, even if this place is razed.

Once a month, the room gains an occupant.

But only once a month.

Because there is a sickness in wanting, a sickness in clinging to things that have passed. It claws at the throat and rots you, too, like the bones of this house will rot and decay and fall away.  
  
Because every moment lingered here threatens something unimaginable: threatens that the occupancy of that little house will shift away. That the last person to touch these things will disappear, disappear like the smell of fresh linen and gunpowder did in the doorway.  
  
Because any longer stokes a fire that cannot ever be put out, and that fire is agony, too, in a dark place. Perfect, beautiful, horrifying agony - it consumes. It is the inevitable feeling of a loneliness too heavy to breathe under - the loneliness of more than just one soul. Acute is not the word: it is senseless. It is limitless.

But mostly, undeniably, completely, all-encompassingly: because Ben Solo must pretend. Must live in this reality, where the edge of the world and the limitless expanse of decay collide.

There is no other way.

* * *

 

**FIVE YEARS LATER**

**Forward Command, Delta-3-Charlie Military Posting, Active Zone.**

"Uncle Finn said you won't be home for a whole week!"

Laila's voice is insistent, even through the crackle of the phone line - it sizzles with an impatience, a sense of frustration that shouldn't be possible for a child just turned four. She's too bright for her own good - a spark in dark places that houses both genius and an anxious energy in equal measure. Never cruel, but always...always sharp, always demanding the honest truth. Where you're head-on, she's subtle. Patient.

It's harder than ever now to forget where that comes from.

You sigh; clipping on your vest as you balance your mobile into the crook of your shoulder. Uniformed soldiers jog by, the sounds of jet engines rearing up filling the hangar: air rushing around as you frown.

"I thought you liked staying with Uncle Finn and Aunty Rey. They've got cable and Aunty Rey makes that lemonade you like."

Laila makes a sound.

"But...I miss you. And my toys..."

"You have Sausage, right? Ask Aunty Rey if you can borrow her tea set and have a party with him. He'll like that, no doubt."

Sausage the teddy bear is Laila's constant companion: one of his eyes is a little loose, but he's as well loved as a bear can be. Back in your little apartment, he's dragged to nearly every meal: he sits patiently on the table and _must_ be served, at the very least, a glass of orange juice and a biscuit while you eat.

"...Okay."

"Can you put Uncle Finn back on, honey? I've just got to talk to him about work stuff."

Laila knows that 'work stuff' isn't really 'work stuff': not in the way most adults throw around the term. How specifically she understands what's going on is up in the air - she knows you're a soldier of some description, knows that you go away sometimes for long stretches and she has to stay with Finn and Rey. Knows that you come from somewhere dangerous. Knows that there's a war going on: that there's fighting on the news you watch into the small hours of the morning.

Doesn't know that you're liable to get shot at immediately. Doesn't know that you're in an active war zone right now.

Doesn't know why you're there.

Laila sniffles.

"Love you."

Oh. Yep. That's...that's a definite lump in your throat.

"Love you more."

The phone crackles as you listen to the padding of her feet on wooden floors; imagine her dark waves bobbing as she walks. Her hair is thick and wild and long: dark as night, flicking out unmanagably. She takes your complexion, your eye colour. But her structure, her movements, her mind - she's _him_. Down to the freckle that sits inside her finger, it's like looking at the familiar stranger you can't possibly forget. The first time you had seen her - oh, the love you had for her. For the way she reflected back every part of his soul you'd never thought you'd see again.

_Look what we did, Ben. Look at her shine._

Across the hangar, you see Poe hanging out of a helicopter: packing in some gear as he barks something at a group of waiting recruits. He's an excellent pilot - best in the business. No-one you'd trust more.

Finn's cough jolts you back into your own skin.

"You've got a good kid, you know. She's a bonefied sweetheart."

And for the briefest of moments: your heart skips. A beat missed, somewhere deep down inside.

_I love you, sweetheart._

"She's the best" you smile, lip quivering "best thing I ever did."

 _Best thing we ever did,_ you can almost hear Ben say.

"Nervous?"

"Hard not to be."

"Yeah," Finn takes an unsteady breath "it's all over the news. Every station. They're saying it's the final leg now. I bet it doesn't feel like it."

When he's right, he's right.

"Its been a long few years."

"Tell me about it."

"But soon," you swallow, hard "soon, this will all be over. And we can bring them all somewhere safe. Somewhere better."

Poe holds up his hand, splays his palm to you as he adjusts his flight gear on his head. Five minutes and you fly out into an uncertain world; back to the place that haunts your nightmares and flits through your dreams. The barren place that houses everything you grew up knowing sits just beyond the horizon, ripped by war: a war Snoke has forced. With more and more reports of tortures, premature deaths, political factions rising - public pressure had mounted quickly.

And you had jumped on this chance. A shot in the dark.

Finn is quiet for a moment as you clip on your belt, fumbling at the loops to make sure the holsters are secure.

"...Think he's out there somewhere? Holed up?"

At first, you think he means Snoke.

But the gland on your neck - it _throbs_. Shoots pain through the imprint of teeth that rolls over the skin there, almost as though it knows something you don't. Over the years it has grown more prone to throbbing bitterly at the mere thought of Ben; the briefest hint of a mention spiking feelings of separation in your gut. Occasionally, a flutter of something foreign wraps itself around you. When you're in heat, it spikes up: emotions rolling through you that you can't quite place. As though you're hearing a voice from deep under the waves, distorted by distance and time.

That voice is getting stronger. Growing in volume.

_Close._

"I _know_ he is," you say "and I'm going to find him. Whatever it takes."

* * *

In the middle of the night: there's a rapping on the flap of your tent.

Grogilly, you pull yourself up to sitting - wincing off the feeling of your stomach somersaulting. Suppressants put in most of the work for you nowadays, but you're close enough to the next one that you're a little too tender, a little too delicate. Figures that'd come along just when you were deployed, right when you need to be alert.

"Come in."

It comes out as a mumble as you run your hands over your face; wiping off the sheen of sweat on your forehead in the dim light. Ugh - you're starting to smell all sugary and floral. You'd better pack emergency blocker perfume in your pack tomorrow, just in case more unsavoury Processed Alphas catch a whiff.

A young private pokes his head through the flap, coughing nervously.

"Sorry to disturb you, Ma'am. There's a young woman in medical who may have information on the Commander you're looking for."

At that, you drop your hand from your face. Adrenaline bolts through you; combined with a fleeting, tenuous hope.

"Thank you Private - I'll be there right away."

The young, silhoutted private - he hesitates. There's a palpable flair of something in the air: spicy, smoky scent thickening in the doorway.

It's entirely unintentional on his part: it's not his fault at all that his pheromones are reacting like this. You're young; you're cusping on heat in the middle of a warzone. Omega soldiers are few and far between. Poor guy's probably all over the place.

"That will be all, Private."

Your tone drips with polite warning, and he immediately straightens.

"Yes ma'am. Sorry ma'am."

The moment the flap falls, you jump up. Pull on your folded uniform at the foot of your bed and spritz on just a little blocker spray; then stride out into the night.

Medical is just a short walk away, in the one solid structure of the camp. It was originally used as an outpost for storing ammunitions - now, it's a makeshift medical bay for anyone injured or rescued from the front. Mostly, it's young Omega girls; often in states of varied distress and highly, highly dehydrated.

One such girl trembles on a little cot - blue eyes glassy and heavy-lidded as you part the curtain. She's stick thin and limp, save for a round stomach: heavily pregnant with pups. An angry-looking bite sits on the junction between her shoulder and her neck, covered in what look like nail marks dragged across the surface.

The drip in her arm is red with feedback; dark against her pale skin.

"Wh-wheres Craig?" she trembles "Have you seen him?"

You pull up a chair next to her - shuffling in and pulling it across the concrete floor. She's so frail, so young: it's heartbreaking.

"Zara, isn't it?"

She nods: sniffling.

"I don't understand what's happening," she says, teary eyed "have you seen my Alpha?"

You give a sad smile, cautiously reaching out to take her hand. Her pulse flutters weakly in her veins: she's in a very delicate place. The medics think her Alpha might've been killed in a skirmish - but there's no way to be certain. If he was, and you tell her: she's liable to die of shock. One-way bonds mean she can't feel his presence the same way he can feel hers; but grief, in Omegas, is a dangerous thing.

Best to be brief, and gentle, and soft.

"Zara; I need your help."

She bites her lip, shaking her head.

"The doctor says I'm not well...I don't think I can help you."

"It's okay; I just have some questions. If you can answer, it'll be a big help for all of us."

 Zara wipes away a tear with the back of her wrist; then, she rests her hand on her blanketed stomach. Rubbing it with her thumb.

"Okay."

Thank god.

"Thank you. Zara, I need to know; do you know a Commander named Kylo Ren, who works for Snoke?"

"For the Supreme Leader?"

Oh. Your stomach lurches; anxiety flitting to the front of your mind. _Supreme Leader_ still inspires intense feelings of pain, of grief. Will it ever stop?

You nod, and Zara seems to consider this for a moment - sniffing.

"I don't _think_ so."

"Maybe he's going by something different. Maybe..." you suck on the inside of your cheek "...Ben? He's tall, black hair. A scar on his right side, down by his cheek."

Zara's face drops, her eyes widening.

"He..." she trembles "...he's a bad, bad Alpha. The Supreme Leader says he..." she starts to sob. "He wants to hurt our pups. He kills Alphas!"

Your heart stutters in time with your gland; it pulses as you raise your fingertips to the red skin there. Oh, god. Is that him? He's still _alive_.

_Alive._

You try to keep the hopeful tone out of your voice - you squash it as Zara wipes at her tears.

"Where does he live?"

Zara shakes her head violently.

"Don't go near him! You're Processed too - he'll hurt your pups!"

"It's okay. My little girl isn't here - she's far away. But I need to find this Alpha. He's got something of mine I need back."

"...If you go" she says, swallowing "...He's evil. He'll try to claim you. He'll try to mate with you."

_You can only hope._

* * *

 

Stone cracks under your feet as you cautiously make your way through overgrown streets. Your hand is always, always on your rifle: flicking to the trigger at the slightest movement in the bushes. Trees loom overhead, now uninhibited in their growth as they climb towards the sky. Roots have opened up the concrete streets to weeds; have brought down several of the rickety roofs, their shingles displaced by weather and time.

It feels like a village trapped in time. Trapped at the edge of the world.

You recognise the corner store; now in a state of disrepair. Carts of fruits and veggies had once lined the street - now those carts are bare, broken as they lean against crumbling brick.

Finn's old house is opposite - blue paint flaking on the porch steps. The light that never quite worked has fallen from its hinges.

Still, you keep walking.

Poe's little shack on the edge of the forest. The medical bay, totally destroyed by a rogue beam. Maz's bar, with the bottles long raided by lone stragglers.

And at the end of a winding street; there is a house.

It has four walls; six windows. Two doors. At the edge of a deep and dark wood, it creaks and groans under the weight of its beams. It has stood through wars and ages that have otherwise obliterated the sallow earth beneath it: and though the wooden skeleton of such a building has held itself together; it is slowly giving way to the wind and cold.

You taste nothing on the air; no indication of a presence on the wind. Only the smell of damp, rotting wood and the forest, rising up to meet it.

Your porch has collapsed in the corners; the latticework straining under the weight of it. The windows have the curtains drawn - the morning light holds something luminous as it casts the house in a silhoutte, the roof now punctured in places by falling wooden beams. The paint has peeled away in some places, ravaged by the sun or the rain or the lack of any real care. You remember painting it with your bare hands, one bright April afternoon: Finn's hands stained and your hair matted with the drops.

That's all this town is now. Memories of the way things could have been. Memories of before.

And perhaps he won't be here. Perhaps you'll find no indication of footprints in the hall, no smell proceeding a dark-haired man in the kitchen. Perhaps Ben Solo never returned to your house: perhaps he now lingers somewhere else entirely, and has only been spotted here in a flitting moment.

Perhaps this is fleeting hope, and nothing more.

You take the steps up to the door, checking for any signs of life. There is no indication of movement, no trace of dust to show disturbance.

The handle is loose in your palm as you turn it; the lock sticks, indicating the deadbolt is pushed across.

And your heart _leaps_.

 _Hope_.

You shoulder your rifle and move around to the back door. It's now obscured by dense brush - but there's no deadbolt on the back, nothing to stop you breaking down the door. You push through the undergrowth and reach the peeling brown door; twisting the handle. This time, it has some give; and after a good amount of jiggling (and some less savoury breaking-and-entering conduct), you find the door creaks open.

And...God.

_God._

The smell is...it's everything. It's a kaleidoscope of colour; of everything, anything. Pieces of your soul are knitting together, burning in dark places filling up until there's nothing left but endless light. Your gland aches and pulses with such ferocity that it almost burns in your blood - it's too much, it's so much after so long that you feel your mind go totally blank. Only one thought remains, one word, screaming in your blood.

"Ben", you breathe; tears pricking at your vision as you move through the doorway. A bowl of apples sits on the counter; a pistol near the stove. A pile of silver cans pushed against one of the walls, neatly arranged with the labels showing, almost compulsive in their ordering. The corridor is dark, morning light obscured by your thin curtains. The living room is borded off - boxes stacked against the door that you clear with a leap.

But you couldn't care. Couldn't care at all.

The scent grows stronger; stronger and stronger until you can make out individual currents of thought. Caution, anxiety, loneliness. Fear. Anger. They swirl and throb and burn, pulsing as you make your way to the door of your bedroom. It sits slightly ajar; just cracked open enough that the warmth of his scent bathes over your skin. You shudder; hand on the frame.

"Ben?"

Slowly, cautiously: you nudge the door open with the barrel of your gun.

It's beautiful; it's so, so beautiful. Spicy and warm, thick and powerful. His scent wraps around the room: it winds through the pillows, seeped into the grains of the wood. There's no sign of him, but the sheets are disturbed - there's an imprint on the covers, a glass of water perched on the beside table. Other than that...it's amazing how little has moved. How little has been touched or changed or fiddled with. The room stands as a monument to you, in some way: your things are intimately clean, kept in their places. Even your old, reliable rifle; it's loaded, still sitting by the doorway.

Where is he?

You take several steps to the side of the bed, letting your free hand skim the covers. An involuntary shiver grips you - a pressure forming between your hipbones that _throbs_. God, in five years, you've felt nothing like this; nothing like this sense of wholeness, sense of anticipation.

Something cold and metal presses to the back of your skull.

"Don't move."

_Alpha._

Your hands creep upward, rifle in your palm pointed to the sky. There's a lump in your throat that won't abate; your thighs tremble in your uniform.

"Alph-"

"-Gun on the floor. Pistols and knives too. Slowly."

His deep voice reverberates in your mind; your gland practically fizzing and vibrating. But his tone is all Alpha: it's a command you cannot disobey, even if you want to. Even if you're desperate to spin on the spot and run to him - you're beholden to something else entirely.

You swallow thickly, ring and little finger still on the gun as your index finger points to the sky. With jittery movements, you place it down on the floor - showing your hands again as you unholster your pistol, demonstrating the safety is on and laying it flat. Then you do the same for your combat knife and swiss army knife: placing them flush against the barrel of your gun.

Having followed his command: you gasp in a breath. Composure.

Fuck. He smells...god, he smells just so incredible. Can he not smell you? He must be jammed with blockers; up to the nines with them.

"Stand still," he growls, Alpha-voice dialed up "and don't move a muscle."

He moves around you; just out of vision as he drags your equipment over with a booted foot. You're really beginning to feel like your skin is constricting, now: beginning to feel just the smallest pulse of slick, smallest hint of heat between your legs. Christ, this never happens.

Your body _knows._

He seems to move out of the corner of your eye, shifting his gun on his shoulders as he tries to move your things away. You want to turn your head, but fuckinggoddamnit. It's literally outside of your realm of capability.

If you're shot by your own mate; you're going to be absolutely pissed.

Suddenly, three things happen at _exactly_ the same time.

1\. Ben's Alpha-voice command snaps in half, utterly broken as if overriden by a higher-ranking command.

2\. His scent spikes drastically; moving through so many emotions at once that there is no single one you can make out. It's the feeling of complete, all-encompassing disbelief and shock.

3\. Ben Solo staggers back against your wardrobe with enough force to make it rock against the wall: his huge form eclipsing the doorway.

You turn to face him, and the world changes. Everything changes.

 _Everything_.

"Sweetheart," he whispers.

 

 


	12. Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All we have is now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know how I thought this would be the last chapter? It DEFINITELY ISN'T. I changed my mind.
> 
> TW for Ben's mental state being BAD. He clearly hasn't coped well and has a collection of mental health issues; PTSD being the biggest one. Stay safe!

"Never seen one before."

Snow falls. Little flakes; white and twirling, crisp in the fading light. He thinks it would be pretty, somehow - in another world. If his life wasn't his, maybe he'd see something worth loving in it. Something worth celebrating.

He shrugs his jacket upward to cover the place on his neck right where the ridges and whirls of teeth marks meet paper-thin skin. It's all red, all scabbed - crescent indents in it bleed when he scratches at them. He doesn't...he's not trying to. He's not trying to pull the skin open: far from it.

But the days are long. The nights are _longer_.

So he digs his nails in, when it gets too much. When he feels as though he's fading out of place: when he doesn't feel real.

And though it stings and protests and physically bleeds: he shivers with minute shocks of purpose.

He has little else.

The woman shakes her head - embarrassed. Her chains jangle in the cold dark, on the stone bricks and flaking paint. She's a Beta - not Processed at all. Ben has to wonder why that is; why she's down here, and not...

"Sorry", she mumbles. "Never seen another Alpha with one of those."

Ben's eyes keep flickering out to that window; through the bars that hold him captive. The metal on his ankle keeps him here, keeps him chained. But just beyond this iron; a blanket of white promises something new. A break from being slumped in the dark, unmoving cell.

"Nor have I."

His voice is cold. Distant.

The woman doesn't take the hint.

"Think you'll ever see her again?"

It's the lead weight that drops in his stomach - it's the knife that twists, that shatters this constant ethereal sensation in his mind. Because that question: it lingers on his mind at night, the constant fear that winds around his throat and constricts it - the sensation that it's _no question at all._ He has spent years coming to terms with the inevitability of it, even if he's done everything to stave it off. Even if he's run and run, endlessly, since that very day in the radio tower - you cannot outrun yourself. 

Ben knows this better than anyone.

That first month, that first rut after you'd left him: that was the closest he'd ever come to true, genuine insanity. His bones were hollow; acid leeching through his marrow and ripping screams from his throat that tore at his vocal chords. His voice was hoarse, cheeks stinging from tears that would not abate, no matter how dehydrated he was. His whole body listless, harrowed, purposeless.

Grief is not the word. Separation does not even cusp on the sensation.

He feels that grief now; now, as the cell walls seem to close in. As his eyes water with the honest truth of the thing.

"No", he chokes, swallowing thickly "she's gone. And that's...I have to..."

_Accept that._

_Carry on._

Even if it consumes him.

* * *

Perhaps it's a dream, then.

The first dream, the last dream - the only dream he's had for years and years. He knows this part well; it's the inevitable feeling of clamouring to hold something intangibly delicate. Petals that disintegrate under the callouses of his fingertips: he's desperate to hold them close, to feel them against his skin, feel the colour bleed into the loops and swirls of his hands. 

But desperation is always his downfall.

Wanting and wanting and wanting is dangerous - genuinely, truly dangerous. The clap of ignition in gunpowder can kill; it can break through bone and sear through sinew. It can break and burn and rot. But wanting is the finger on a trigger: wanting is to crush those soft petals in hands too tight, smothering and suffocating until they tear and curl.

Desperation, once ignited, must consume in a path that spreads ever outward; it is to sanity and sense what a trigger is to bone.

Ben Solo knows this; he has had the good sense to consider it, so many thousands of times over the course of the last five years that it is written in his blood. Reality bends around the shape of wanting: clamouring in the dark, a man can see a flicker of candlelight, if his mind wills it. Swallowing sand in the desert, how many have chased a mirage to their deaths?

_No._

_Please._

You're clear as day to him - so real, so incredibly real. His mind has conjured a version of you that age has hardly touched; it has stroked you with such kindness that you glow with it. He recognizes the cloth armour, all dark splotches and buckles that decorate you from the neck down. Thick boots. God, your face; he sees it now and he...he thought he'd forgotten. These visages of you when he wakes in distress have warped and fizzled, their features blurred by time. Distance.

This version of you makes him ache with the subtle details - the curve of your lips makes his gland throb unbelievably, makes his knees so weak that he can feel himself struggling against the wardrobe doors. 

Strangely - your scent does not follow.

Perhaps it is gone from his memory, now: perhaps that is lost to him. Under three layers of intense blockers, Ben can hardly remember the last time he could smell _anything_. Only in his memory do those familiar senses stir; until recently, he swore he could...swore he had some semblance of memory of it.

It's gone, then. His sanity with it.

"Oh my God" your mirage gasps, and Ben - Ben can hardly take it. This isn't fair, this is too much, he doesn't--"Ben, I can't believe...I've-"

He drops his hold on his gun; it's too heavy for his fingers, too weighty under his faltering grip as he tries to focus. Tries to pull himself together.

Scarred palms find their ways to his eyes, pushing in as hard as he can. Hard enough that stars dance in his vision and his pulse hammers in his veins.

"Please. I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't-"

And then.

_And then._

Your hand - your ethereal hand - it softly comes to rest at the point just below his jaw. The cracked skin there, the imprint of your teeth from five years prior: it is drifted over, ever so gently, by the press of your fingers.

"Alpha: I'm here. It's really me."

He opens his eyes, and the world changes. Everything changes.

 _Everything_.

And Ben Solo cannot breathe: cannot even begin to express the feeling of his soul colliding back into his body. Where your fingers skim his gland there is an electricity he is powerless against; it ignites down into him with a fierceness that makes his heart beat out of his chest, makes his bones shake under the colliding of it all. A softness forms in the sharper planes of your face - your expression filled with such awe that Ben cannot help but tremble with wonder.

Before he can so much as consider it - you're in his arms. Crushed to his chest as he shakes and shakes, holding you so tightly that he wonders how he'll ever let go. You sob into his chest; your body following his, hands wrapped around his waist as though you can fill the missing spaces in between your bodies.

When you both sink to the floor, it is to the sound of quiet sobbing. Ben's soft lips whispering your name into your hair, tears tracking on your scalp as you mouth at his collar, breathing him in. The morning light is cold and distant - it winds through his thick, dark hair and kisses at your skin.

 _So this_ , he thinks, _is what home feels like._

"Ben, oh Ben. My Ben."

Yes.

_Yours, and only yours._

"I--" he's choking up "How? How is this _possible?"_

"I came back for you. I had to. I've never had a choice: I love you, Ben."

He nods, almost frantic in the action as he nuzzles into the skin on your cheek. It's smooth on his lips, sending warmth and awe through every cell in his body. He feels as though the lead weights that have been pulling him down are finally, finally leaving him be. Your lashes glisten from tears; chalky and warm.

When a disbelieving laugh pulls from his lips, it surprises even him.

"I love you so much, so much. I'm trying, but...I'm not sure you're even real."

You wind your hands into his hair, reaching up to run through his scalp and-- _oh_. The sob that catches in his throat makes him flush red with embarrassment, almost a choking sound that he cannot fathom as you run tender fingers through his thick locks. Oh God. Being held. Being touched. Oh _God_.

He's _lost_. Utterly, irreparably _lost_.

"Maybe this will help", you coo, pushing your lips to his.

It's heaven and hell and everything he's dreamed, everything he's wanted - he groans so loudly that it reverberates in his chest as your breath seems to hitch. Even under the weight of all of his blockers - his body responds immediately. Your tongue licks into his mouth and he swears he sees stars; he's missed this. God, has he missed this.

Your breath is ragged when you finally pull back, your forehead pressed to his. Smeared with one another's tears, sharing oxygen in desperation.

"I cannot believe" you sigh "how much I've missed your scent. Ben, you taste _exquisite_."

He chuckles, sniffling.

And he realises - with some twinge of sadness - that the sound of his laughter is foreign in his own ears.

"I'm on so many blockers..." Ben chews his lip "I couldn't...couldn't keep..."

"I can't imagine how hard this must've been for you."

He sighs, nuzzling his nose up along your hairline.

"In the drawer" he whispers "first drawer, in a little silver cylinder. If you could just reach behind me and--"

You don't hesitate, but the loss of your hands on his scalp is enough to make the air feel like it's punched out of him. He hears the wooden beside drawer creaking open, hears metal and glass clinking as you rumage through blindly. It's a haphazard collection of things: whatever he's gathered that he can possibly trade. Mostly medications; anything he could grab in his pockets when...

The drawer sounds like it's pushed shut, you immediately falling back into his arms. He can't help the shaky breath he pulls into his lungs as you hand him the cylindrical tube: his eyes widening at the realisation of what it is he's doing.

"What is that?" you ask, glancing down at the barcode imprinted on the side.

In one motion he staggers to his feet; seizing you up into his arms in a bridal carry with a grunt of effort. You yelp in surprise, and he...he can't help but press a kiss to your lips. Just a soft peck: a promise. He very slowly lowers you onto the sheets of his bed (or yours, perhaps - he isn't quite so sure whether the ownership has shifted) watching as you appraise him with tear-stained eyes and a wondrous smile. His body despairs at letting you go for a brief moment, but he's...there are things he needs, now - things he has waited five years too long to enjoy.

"God, I can't believe you. I can't believe it. _Look at you."_

He's rambling; he knows it. Seeing you, here, now - it's almost too much. Almost. But he flips the cylinder in his hand, pushing the hem of his padded pants down just enough to expose the pale, muscled skin on his thigh.

You seem to squirm.

"Come here" you beg, and the tone is dripping with--

"Sweetheart, trust me: just give me one moment and I'll _never_ let you go."

A lock of hair falls over his eyes as he looks down at the container, unscrewing it and pulling out an autoinjector. Almost a silver pen; red fluid visible through a little plastic window. He bites off the applicator, taking a deep breath...

...And jams it into the muscle of his thigh, wincing as the plastic squeaks between his teeth.

In front of him, you hiss: your hand slapping down onto your thigh in sympathetic pain. He shouldn't find his heart leap at the thought of your shared pain, but it's proof. Proof that you're both still...connected. Still halves of something.

Together.

He spits the plastic onto the floor, casting the empty autoinjector aside. Once he's pulled his pants back up, he scrambles back to you: his back leaning against the headboard, him pulling you into his lap with a growl. You shudder as he loops his arms around your waist, nuzzling just below your jaw. Staring in wonder at the imprint of his teeth on your neck; the way it looks perfectly preserved on your skin.

"Give it a few minutes" Ben says huskily, nipping at your jaw. "The blockers will burn out. And when they do... _God_ , sweetheart, we have so much lost time to make up for. You have no idea how much I've--"

"--Fuck. Ben, we're...I'm supposed to be calling in an extraction. Immediately. They've given me a window of a few hours, I'd have to..."

He feels a shiver through his spine. Anxiety bites through the haze of joy in his blood: fear he can't quite place. Unknown variables; unknown places. Ideas.

He thought he'd feel joy at the thought of leaving with you. Getting out of here - hasn't he been desperately begging for this for as long as he can remember? To have a life outside of this, a life with you: that's what he wants. He's been running towards it ever since you left.

So why is his breath crushing from his lungs?

"Don't go back" he whispers, kissing at your earlobe. "Stay here. We'll both stay here. They don't come here anymore - _nobody_ comes here anymore. They're gone. They lost, and we're still here - so let's just carve this out for ourselves. Grow old in this little house. Be the only two people that matter in the world."

"I can't."

Ben chews his lip, pulling you as close as he can. "Why?"

"Laila."

He stiffens. Freezes.

"Who?"

His heart is thundering, now. He feels like he's the one becoming surreal, becoming ethereal. The world is tipping on its axis, too far to one side - threatening to throw him off, to cast him off of the edges and into the nothingness. Because he _knows_ that name, doesn't he? He's sure he does. Sure it's familiar, even if he's never heard it with any clear, resounding sound. He knows it like he knows his fingertips. Knows it like he knows this fear.

This pain.

When you turn in his lap, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Boots kick the skirting; your hands reaching out to cup his jaw on either side. In your eyes; that same fear. Or perhaps an echo of it - an understanding. A nervous smile, all tangled with hope.

"This freckle here" you say quietly, thumbing at a spot between his right cheekbone and his ear "she's got it. And this one..." you follow the curve down towards the side of his nose "...hers is lighter, but it's there, too. She likes the way they dance when she laughs."

Ben cannot speak.

Cannot hold his mouth closed as his lips part.

A tear beads at the corner of one of his eyes; he feels the pad of your thumb wipe it off.

"She's got so much dark hair. Black and wavy, so thick that when it rains in the city it gets all scrunchy on the sides. I try to keep it cut short enough that it doesn't weigh her down, but it grows so fast. Two weeks ago I had to comb acrylic paint out of it; blues and greens. Like a peacock. She got all teary when I couldn't get out one of the tangles: you know what she said?"

He doesn't. He shakes his head.

"She said it was okay. She said she was strong; strong just like her mama."

Ben has cried so much since you walked through that door that his whole face stings with it; but now it is a silent thing. It falls to his collar and stings at his skin, and he...he feels as though he's falling. Or flying, maybe.

And for once, it's okay.

It's okay.

"You'll love her" you sniff, rubbing tears on the back of your wrist. "She's you. She's sharp and smart and tough and nervous. When I look at her, she's...she's you. So come home with me. Come and meet your daughter."

Ben smiles through his tears, choking as he wipes them off on his palm.

"Okay" he beams, all breathy and toothy. _"Okay."_

You press a kiss to his temple; so gentle that his heart sings.

"Okay then."

The moment becomes quiet - becomes a subtle silence that weaves through you both, your foreheads pressed together. Occasionally, he'll tease a featherlight peck on your lips; in response, you laugh ever so quietly, rubbing your nose against his and moving your hands to the back of his neck. He knows there are so many things he ought to say, so many moments in between that have been lost over the last five years: but this is something wonderful. 

Finally, finally, finally.

His kisses turn a little more playful in the joy of it; he chuckles as you squirm in his lap, laughing as his mouth draws down from your lips to your jaw.

"Mm" you hum in appreciation "I should really radio in..."

Ben nods, his kisses slipping down to the thin skin of your neck. His teeth massage into your throat and you laugh, the feeling sending vibrations through his lips. It's lovely here: lovely at this juncture. Feels good. Feels natural.

Tastes amazing.

_Tastes so good. Beautiful mate. Close to heat. So fertile - lick her gland, drag the scent in. Trigger her heat. Rut, rut, rut, rut, rut--_

Oh _no_.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, your scent is growing in his blood. The scent of you, the scent of him: magnified, curling in his bones, heating him up. He's half hard already, the blockers slowly starting to fade out. Letting the Alpha in his head try to grip the wheel.

"Sweetheart," he swallows thickly, his face hovering inches from your gland. His eyes are transfixed on the grooves of his teeth in your neck; he can't pull away. He can't stop staring. He's...transfixed. Unwillingly transfixed. Starting to throb, unable to look away.

Your eyes are on your radio, but it's clear by the way your pulse is jumping that you have an inkling of where this is going.

_Heat. Mate. Knot. Ben, come on. Ben. Been so long, so long without knotting, so long, so long, too long, need need need._

"I can't..." he licks his lips, his voice distant in his ears. His cock is aching, straining now: he can smell how close you are to your heat. Your scent is flaring markers at him: you've gone without a knot for years and years, and he's...you smell more fertile than ever, more ready for him than ever, more desperate for him than ever. He just has to lean in and suck, just has to encourage your body the _smallest_ bit. It's biology. A dance older than either of you.

Instinctually, you're tilting your throat towards him. Giving him access. Airing your scent, your gland, to let him bathe in it. And he...there's a reason he shouldn't, but it's...it's getting foggy, it's dark in here, he's...there's...

"Omega," he's starting to burn, starting to ignite. Losing sense. "Tell me. Tell me I shouldn't. You need to--" he groans, eyes still on your gland. Pulsing. It's pulsing. 

Control is waning. You need to make that call. Need to move away, tell him to snap out of this reverie. If you command it of him now, it'll dissipate. This spell will break, and you'll both be free to go.

"Ben," you whimper "I'll delay them. I'll delay it, I'll do anything, just...kiss me. Touch me. Knot me. Alpha, just hold me: fill me up and don't ever let me go."

The gap is closed before he can blink: and the fire scorches all.

* * *

 

And so Ben is senseless.

He is wildfire.

Nothing delicate will see the dawn as anything but ashes in his wake.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much of this chapter was inspired by the song [Lost by Dermot Kennedy.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FB1dDpdi7uc) It's a beautiful piece, and almost every lyric is relevant here.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed it! It's a complex chapter and there's a lot to unpack.
> 
> [Let me know if you felt things over here on Tumblr!](callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


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